Paradise
by CafeAime
Summary: What if Katniss had found a way to convince President Snow of her love for Peeta? What if, along the way, she ends up convincing herself?
1. Burning

When I was a child, sometimes my mother and father would argue.

About little things the other had or hadn't done. About a joke, intended as a flippant remark, too far gone and too serious now to withdraw. Sometimes, they'd argue about us. About me and Prim. That hurt the most.

The first few times I'd push the angst aside, pretend it wasn't happening, tell myself they'd get over it soon.

But then one time when I was twelve and the fights had been getting really bad, my father stopped coming home at night.

Where has he gone, we'd demand of our mother? When will he be home?

At first, nothing. Then, finally, tired of our desperate pestering, she'd snap that he was sleeping elsewhere tonight, that we weren't to speak of him anymore.

We'd cry, of course, and the slightly pained look on my mother's face would play on my mind for days afterwards. But Prim would soon enough forget – how I envied her youth, her selective amnesia of the things that hurt too much to consider – and I would make an effort to distract myself. Every night, I would cry myself to sleep at the thought that my mother and father – the two happiest people in the world, it had seemed – no longer loved each other.

But then one night, as I lay awake in the dead of the night completely miserable and exhausted but completely unable to sleep, I heard the wooden door swing open at the gentlest of touches. I did not move, knowing somehow from the sense of ease I managed to attain every time I heard his familiar weight move across the floorboards and smelt his fresh pine scent, that my father was home. I listened as he creaked across the floorboards, to the low rumblings of his soothing voice as he told my mother he loved her, that he always would. I listened as he crawled into bed beside her as she, presumably, has welcomed him back into her loving arms. And then I listened no more, already fast asleep. Because I know from the peaceful silence and the fact that my father has once again managed to convince his wife that he loved her – that was what they had been arguing about this time, I remember now – that everything was going to be alright. Not only had my father convinced her, he had managed to convince me.

It is this memory that inexplicably springs to mind as I stand frozen outside Peeta's room on the train, unable to bring myself to knock or move away.

Convince me, President Snow had said. Convince _him_. I would rather try to convince a poisonous snake not to eat me. A hint of a smile twitches my lips when I remember that's exactly what I'm doing.

If I'm going to convince him, just as my father did to me, I decide there's only one way to do that. It isn't kissing him at dinners on the Victory Tour. It isn't our faked spontaneity, no matter how much the Capitol audience croons at that. It certainly isn't dancing with him – between us, we have three left feet and one prosthetic one, which is never a successful combination.

If I'm going to convince him, there's only one thing to do.

It's convincing myself.

While I am pondering this, the door before me opens. Peeta, on his way out, jumps back in surprise at seeing me standing in his doorway and stands stock still, gawping at me. I privately muse that the fact that I am wearing nothing but one of the very sheer, very short and for some reason very lacy nightdress that Cinna has designed for me is probably helping.

"Katniss!" He gasps. "What are you doing here? I was just heading out to get some air…" He trails off, and I can tell by the way that his brow creases minutely that the nervousness on my face is all too evident. "Katniss? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say, already turning away. "I'll go back to bed -" but before I can go, run away and hide, he had a firm grasp on my hand and is towing me inside. I shut the door behind us and do not resist him and can't help but noticing how good his fingers feel in mine.

Once inside, he pulls me to sit with him on the end of his double bed. My judgement on this bed mirrors exactly what I had thought about mine: why is it so _soft_? Don't the Capitol know what time they are wasting when they devote it to making their beds as soft as possible instead of bringing home food every day? I have no time to reflect on this as I realise suddenly that Peeta's gaze is currently boring a hole in the side of my head, no doubt attempting to scavenge the secret of what has shaken me so badly. Blushing, I drop my eyes and end up looking at our hands, still intertwined.

"Oh!" I say, brushing a small yellow stain on his palm with my thumb. "You were painting?"

"Yes." His reply is somewhat impatient. I drop any hopes at diverting him with this subject instantly. "Katniss, what is it? You're sweating."

Here it is. My moment. If I back out now, there may never be another time. But the words stick in my throat. What words? I don't know what I'd say even if I could speak. I want to tell Peeta… I don't know. Want him to convince me. Convince me it isn't all lies. _Convince me_. I try to say it with my eyes, instead, but I know from experience with Haymitch that I've never been in anyway alluring. Well, I have to Peeta, of course. Can't he teach me to feel the same thing about him? Can't I convince him?

I was never any good with words.

As the answer comes to me in a flash, my nervousness unexpectedly drains and is replaced with a steel determination that lets me meet Peeta's eyes once again. And – can it be? – a flicker of excitement glows somewhere under my stomach.

Before he or I know what is happening, I have moved from my seat beside him onto the bed to kneel over him, one leg either side of his hips. My arms are hooked around his neck.

He looks as surprised as I do at this new development.

I am even more surprised than him, though, when I realise that I like it.

"Katniss…" He stutters. "Katniss, what… what are you doing?"

I give no answer, instead leaning forward to kiss him gently on the lips. It shouldn't hurt so much when he pulls away from me. "Katniss…" He says again. I realise, now, there is a hint of sadness in the way he says my name, and his eyes refuse to meet mine. He assumes – quite correctly, of course – that this is another Game. I swallow my self-disgust with difficulty.

"Peeta." His eyes flicker back up to mine, possibly deceived by the desperation in my voice that I think – hope – he might have mistaken for desire. "Peeta, please."

That's it. The end of his resolve. My pleas, as ever, are the only thing that breaks him. I gasp in surprise when his mouth is suddenly on mine, hot like fire and twice as good, but I recover myself enough to push him back onto the bed and kiss him back. His hands meet my hips. When they later slide over my bare skin, the places that he touches will burn like an exquisite fire.

I, the real girl on fire, make no effort to silence my moans as we burn on through the night.

**AN: Thank you for reading, my lovelies! I'd love it if you could review and tell me whether or not this should be a one shot or if I should continue it? I have a few ideas about where this can go if I do so I'd like to know what you think. Thank you all again!**


	2. Paradise

The first thing I am aware of is an all-encompassing, blissful feeling of pure peace that simultaneously makes me ecstatic, confused and terrified. I am scared because it is this exact feeling of calm that I had always associated with death. They call it the better place, the place where everything is peaceful. I am too happy to debate this grim spin on the undefined reason for my newfound happiness, however, so I silence my morbid train of thought by burrowing myself even closer to the soft, warm body beside me.

Oh.

My eyes fly open and are instantaneously met by his. Before I can so much as summon a blush, the reason for my inexplicable delight floods back to me. The joy is quickly gone, replaced by a sickening mixture of guilt, confusion and – interestingly – an odd kind of happiness.

Oh.

"Hey," Peeta says. He manages to say it so cautiously that it almost becomes a question.

"Hey." My reply, on the other hand, is almost inaudible. Emboldened by the night I had misplaced my inhibitions, but now they come to welcome me with open arms. I self-consciously tuck the sheet that is draped around us a little higher up my bare chest. Try to suppress a blush when I notice that he is similarly uncovered but that he, in comparison, does not try to conceal himself. It doesn't work.

I remember, now, the thought that had wandered through my mind as I was falling to sleep in Peeta's arms, utterly spent: that I would wake myself early, try not to wake Peeta, and slither back to my own bed to battle with the shame privately. I had woken in the early hours, I remember now, probably prompted by my unease at an unfamiliar bed: but my own bed was cold, and in my half-sleeping daze being safe and warm in Peeta's arms was all that mattered. So I stayed, and damned the consequences.

Now, though, the consequences are far less distant than they were at two am, and as they – labelled in my head as _Effie, Haymitch, Gale, Peeta, Snow _– rear their obtrusive heads I am panic stricken. I realise for the first time in months that I have no idea what to do or how to get myself out of the mess that I have once again managed to create.

"No nightmares."

Peeta's voice tears me away from my miserable ramblings. I start, confused. What had he said? Something about nightmares. No nightmares. Thinking about it, last night is the first night in a long time that I have not been plagued by nightmares of venomous roses, dying Rues or a squadron of deadly Careers. A dream, half-forgotten, plays at the shore of my subconscious at I dive to save what is left of it before it can be washed away, irretrievable: living in the woods with Peeta, Prim and the others. And a song. A remnant of a song.

_In the night, the stormy night, she closed her eyes_

_In the night, the stormy night, away she'd fly_

_And dreams of Paradise_

I drag myself away from the image of Prim laughing, carefree and unburdened, and teaching Peeta to walk so that he does not scare the game away, and realise that Peeta is waiting for me to respond. I hastily shake my head. "No," I assure him, "no bad dreams." I pause, unsure as to whether I should tell him what I did dream of, but lose my nerve and merely add: "one good one, though."

I am relieved to see him smile at this and when his only response is to lie back down – having been propped up on his elbow to get a better look at me – and pull me to him, I rejoice to think that the worst of the embarrassment is over. That we might not have to talk about last night. That my half-formed justifications, which seem so fragile and ridiculous in the light of day, might not have to be aired at all. I am just settling in to Peeta's embrace, trying not to think of anything but how warm and secure we are here together in our little nest, when he speaks and dashes every single one of my hopes.

"Katniss, about last night - "

And then he is silent, because my lips have found his once again and there is nothing anyone could do to make me break the bond between us.

It turns out when I made this ambitious statement, I had forgotten one key exception.

Effie.

"Peeeeetaaaaa!" she screeches in a way that I think is intended to be motherly but just ends up hurting my ears. She drums on the door to Peeta's room with her talon-like fingernails (painted gold to match her wig, I think, although it changes almost every day). _Brrmp-brrmp-brrmp. _"Time to get up, Peeeetaaaa!"

Peeta and I freeze. His eyes are so wide it is almost comical and for some reason, my nervousness means I have to stuff my fist into my mouth to stifle a laugh that threatens to burst free. Bathroom, he mouths, and I nod, the laughter gone. "Coming, Effie," Peeta yells through the door. I leap out of bed towards the en suite, taking the sheet with me – but Peeta, it turns out, has had the same idea and when we both attempt to cover ourselves the only result is that we both stop in mid-leap and are pulled back to the bed like a push-me-pull-you. My head hits Peeta's metal leg and before I can stop myself I let out a minute "ow" as I slide off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. This time, I cannot stop the giggles and am doubled over laughing. Peeta, too, tries not to laugh but fails miserably. Our attempts to stifle our laughter as he lies naked on the bed and I cradle my head on the floor just as nude are utterly unsuccessful.

"Katniss?" Effie's tone, always high pitched to the point that it is annoying, raises by at least an octave in surprise. She is opening the door.

She is opening the door.

My laughter, already uncontrollable, becomes flat out manic as Effie totters into the room on her little silver heels, lets out an "ee!" of surprise at our appearances and promptly sits down on the floor as though her legs have given way beneath her. I tell myself it isn't funny.

But then her wig, already precarious, wobbles and rolls away under a sofa.

-HG-

At breakfast, it's hard to remember if anything has ever been funny or ever will be again. Peeta has abandoned me with nothing more than a simple "I'll catch you up in a minute". Haymitch has dropped snide comments about not being able to sleep last night because of the noise. Effie is still sniffling. But it is Cinna's gaze that I try the hardest to avoid. Because he knows me better than anyone at this table, and I am terrified that if I look into his eyes, he'll be able to read my true intentions like a book. And I don't want him to do that. Because he'll hate me when he realises that last night's activities were not the bubbling over of a young girl's passion for her friend but instead the desperate attempt to salvage something minutely romantic from our friendship. An experiment.

And I don't even know it was successful yet or not.

I had hoped that Peeta's reappearance might allow me something to go on – an involuntary smile, a skipped heartbeat, _anything _– but by the time he takes his seat beside me the only thing I can feel in his presence is a wave of relief at no longer having to face the persecution of my fellow diners alone. Is that what love is, I wonder desperately? I can't tell. All I can tell is that Peeta's hand sends a jolt of electricity upwards as it rests momentarily on my knee, and that when he is finally beside me I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding and begin to tuck into the breakfast I had forgotten about.

"Sorry I'm late," he smiles easily, and it is as if not just me but the entire room has relaxed somehow in his presence. Haymitch starts a discussion with Peeta about the protocol in District Eight, the place we are to visit next (no eye contact with the Mayor's wife, who has a nervous disorder that makes her panic if anybody looks at her for too long, is the only one I can remember). Effie engages an unwilling Cinna in a conversation about District ruins ("they're going to be all the rage this year, you know"). This leaves me to endure my Prep team's debate about what kind of palette they should be working with for the navy blue strapless dress that Cinna has chosen for the next ceremony (Flavius wants to work with "Sapphire Springs" but Octavia is pushing the Willow Creek selection she has recently put together). It's the first time I've sat through more than five minutes of their idle chatter about things that I have never thought about in my life, and I know exactly what is responsible for the alteration in my tolerance levels.

The ghosts of Peeta's hands lovingly brush strands of hair from my face and it is all I can do to stop from smiling as I clasp his real hand tightly between two of mine.

**AN: Hello my dearests! Thank you for reading this again. I had almost decided not to continue but after the responses I got from the last chapter I thought hey, why the hell not? So here we are! **

**As ever please review, I wasn't too sure about this chapter so please let me know what you thought. :) **


	3. Holiday Romance

Afterwards, it becomes both liberatingly easy and indefinitely hard to continue our TV romance.

It's easier because I no longer cringe away from Peeta's hands, not even a little – so used to his embraces, the kisses we share even when we know no one is looking, his lips and arms and eyes have become such welcome friends to me that I almost begin to crave them when he is not around. It's easier because when I am kissing Peeta, or holding Peeta's hand, or laughing with Peeta, my first thought is no longer in the direction of President Snow and his Capitol advisors but is instead directed to the place in my chest where the warm adrenaline-buzz kick starts at every embrace.

It's harder because I know, even in the happiest of times, that it will not be enough.

In every district it is the same – the general cries of welcome and appreciation. The speeches, the dinners, the dancing, the plaques that Peeta and I have vowed to have melted down and re-made into one big plaque that will read "PLEASE, NO MORE PLAQUES".

The barely veiled anger – no, _rage_ – beneath the cheerful smiles.

As we parade from district to district I begin to lose all hope. President Snow must be watching. And while I am almost certain that he could not help but start to doubt his judgements of mine and Peeta's previously sticky, camera love affair, he must have noticed that in every district we encounter there is some resistance to be seen. In District One, Marvel's father cries out his name during my speech and is dragged away from the square, still screaming profanities, presumably to his death. One of the cameramen has a pebble thrown at him from an unidentified member of the crowd in six. I know, by the time that we reach the Capitol for our final interview with Caesar, that any attempts at mollifying this seething, swarming crowd will be worthless, washed away by the strength of their hatred. So I might as well give up. But then what will Snow do? He will take away my life in the form of those that I love most.

The thought of losing Peeta, now, fills me with such unimaginable despair that I am almost shocked.

So I throw myself wholly into whatever relationship it is that Peeta and I have managed to construct from the ashes of our alliance in the Games. We have abandoned any pretence of sleeping in separate rooms, much to Effie's constant disapproval. The Capitol attendants have started bringing my usual evening hot milk with honey to Peeta's room. Haymitch, as he snidely points out over his liquid breakfast, has got into the habit of taking soundproof headphones to bed.

In the meantime I have got into the habit of holding Peeta's hand, sneaking kisses wherever we can and, of course, avoiding Cinna's company whenever possible.

I miss him. I never thought I would but I do – I miss his advice, his conversation. But I _don't _miss the looks that tell me that he knows. Cinna knows that this – whatever it is, this _thing _with Peeta – is… well. I don't know.

"A holiday romance?" Flavius suggests, frowning into his sadistic toolkit of beautiful tortures as they pluck, paint and spray me within an inch of my life to prepare for the Capitol interview with Caesar on the last night.

Now it is my turn to frown. "A what?" When I explain that the concept of a holiday is completely alien to me, they shriek like I've admitted I eat babies in my spare time. It is quickly explained to me that a holiday romance is a "fling" – whatever _that _means – between two people who have no intentions of keeping up the premise of love once the holiday is over and will potentially never see each other again. I screw up my nose as I contemplate this. These Capitol ideas never cease to take me by surprise. Peeta and I _will _see each other again. There's no denying it, when he lives right around the corner from me. Although I managed to convince my family and friends that our play-acting in the arena was not an indication of our deep, secret love for one another, this time I'm not so sure that I will be able to. We've gone too far, now. Our play romance has become an adult relationship for all to see – on the surface, at least. Gale knows me inside out. Every tear, every facial expression, every twitch, he knows it. But even he might be fooled by this… fooled because I was. A silly little girl who tricked herself into believing that she could simply relax into her… her holiday romance, and not think about the consequences.

But what happens when we get home?

Does it end?

A deep pang of unease and regret surprises me as I consider simply going back to ignoring Peeta once we get home.

An even deeper shiver of guilt runs through me as I wonder what Peeta would think of such a thought. It's real for him, I know – there has never been any doubt of that. Not for me, of course.

But if that's the case, why do I want to cry at the thought of going home and sleeping alone, in my own bed?

Usually I count the seconds until I am allowed to spring from my salon chair but this time it feels like an entire hour of primping, adjusting and styling has gone by before I can even blink. Cinna is in the room, shooing my prep team away so that he can show me my dress in private. "I want it to be a surprise," he insists, ushering them out of the room despite their protests – they haven't seen it yet. Cinna waits until he has shut the door before he sighs and turns to face me. The look on his face is so full of sympathy and understanding that I want to cry. I do not do this – Octavia would cry, too, if she saw my carefully smudged eyeliner had run. Instead, I walk across the room and tentatively fall into Cinna's open arms. He strokes my hair in a way not a hundred miles from the way that Peeta does late at night when neither of us can sleep. I manage somehow to keep the tears from falling but a tell-tale sob escapes my throat.

"Shh," Cinna is whispering. "It'll be alright." A sob becomes a laugh: we both know these are empty promises. Cinna laughs, too. "Okay, well no, it won't. What were you thinking, Katniss? How could you do this to the poor boy?"

I want to pull away, but Cinna's arms hold me fast: I struggle for a moment but then give up the premise of resistance. He is right, and we both know it. I am the guilty one here. "I don't know," I whisper in return.

Silence smothers the half-formed sentences in my head, stops the lies from pouring out. Cinna is right. He is always right. How could I have done this to Peeta? After the last time, when he and I were torn apart by my pretence of love, hadn't I sworn that I would never hurt him again?

And here I am, sleeping in his bed every night. Letting him love me. Letting myself enjoy it.

"I think I know," Cinna murmurs. I twist my head to frown up at him and catch his sad smile. "But I can't tell you why, I'm afraid. You'll just have to figure this one out for yourself." This makes me frown even more. Cinna chuckles at me and traces the frown lines on my forehead. "Don't frown. You'll get wrinkles. And then I have no chance of stopping them from Altering you," he threatens, and I immediately adopt the blankest face possible. "Much better."

As Cinna helps me into my dress – a beautiful red halter neck patterned with tiny star-like rubies – we keep up a meaningless stream of chatter, but I cannot concentrate. I should, I know, be thinking about home, and President Snow, but all I can think about is Peeta. What will he say when he realises that… not that it was all a lie, but that I have deceived him into thinking I care more for him than I do for the second time? And that I even _enjoyed_ doing it?

"It's time."

For a moment, I can't remember why I'm there, standing with Cinna as we stare at my reflection in the full length mirror with – for some reason – bulbs around the edge of the glass. Cinna is watching me with a strange expression on his face. I quickly arrange a smile on mine – a smile which he sadly reflects. And then I am being whisked away to air the details of my private life on national television.

-x-

"So, you two, it's been six months now. Tell us what we all want to know…" Caesar winks at the audience. Despite his helpfulness I suddenly feel a surge of loathing towards the blue-haired, silver-tongue puppet who sits before us. He is nothing but a front man for their charade of lies and manipulation. Peeta feels me tense beside him and gives my hand a quick squeeze. I force myself to take a deep breath and squeeze him back. "…how's it going?"

I blush, and bury my face in Peeta's jacket, sending the audience into titters of childlike laughter. God, how I hate them. Peeta laughs and gently pushes my chin up so that I am facing him. When he kisses me gently on the lips, it is as if the audience is going to simultaneously explode into a colourful sea of adoring, romanticising tears. I smile up at him and turn to answer Caesar. "It's going well, thank you."

"Still the man of your dreams?" Caesar prompts. His eyes tell me my dismissive response was not enough. I panic and cannot speak.

"I…" I turn to Peeta, who, surprisingly, has not yet come to my rescue. He is staring down at me with a strange expression on his face – a mixture of confusion, nerves and suppressed exhilaration, I think. I frown at him. "Peeta?"

Every camera is trained in on us, capturing my confusion, Peeta's bewildering silence. "Is everything alright, Peeta?" Caesar asks with a voice full of genuine concern – not for us, I am certain, but for his job. We are both relieved when this snaps Peeta out of his reverie.

I am less relieved when he shakes his head.

"No…" he says slowly, as if stuck with some complex problem that it is taking all of his effort to solve. "No, Caesar, I'm afraid everything isn't alright."

The audience is shifting, uncomfortable. I glance over to Haymitch but he is frowning, too. "What's wrong, Peeta?" I try to say, but all that comes out is his name in a petrified squeak. He can't do this. He can't reject me, like this, on national television. I want to laugh it off, to tell Caesar he's just joking, but I am petrified into stillness. What is he doing? Doesn't he get it? That anything he says next could mean the death of all of us – Peeta and I, my family, his family? Haymitch? …Gale?

"I can't keep this up any more, Katniss," he tells me, and it as if that despite the audience that cranes forward to hear our every word, he is speaking only for me. I want to respond, but I am frozen. The only voice that I can muster is in my head, keeping up a mantra of a single word: _no, no, no, no…_

"It's not right." He frowns, pulls away from me, runs a hand through his hair. Everything in the studio is silent. Even Caesar is wide eyed and staring. "I can't do this anymore. I can't carry on loving you this much – and I do love you, so, _so _much, wondering if one day…" He turns his eyes back to me and every single camera in the room zooms in on the single tear running unashamedly down his cheek. "Wondering if one day, you're not going to want me any more."

Silence.

_No, no, no, no, no…_

"I would do anything for you, Katniss," he says, putting one hand on my cheek and stroking it lovingly with the fingers that, sometimes, are my only salvation. "I would die for you. The days that I have spent with you have been the best of my whole damn life." He pulls his hand away and sighs. "But now, I think… being with you isn't enough. Not anymore."

He's sliding away from me, off the couch that we share…

_No. No. No. No. No._

…and onto one knee.

_Nonononononono… _

I frown. Wait, what?

"Katniss…"

He has that smile on his face. The one I see when we've just made love, or when we're just sitting together in silence, when he's stroking my hair in the sunshine. The smile that I love.

Like the audience, with their bated breath and widened eyes, I think my heart might explode.

"…will you marry me?"

And then the studio is a chaos of screams and cheers and everyone – even Haymitch, I think – is in floods and Caesar is in shock and the cameras don't know where to point and Peeta is still smiling at me with that smile that I know is meant only for me.

And then I'm kissing him, and my arms have wound themselves around him and nothing, not even President Snow, will ever sever the ties between us. When we come up for air, Peeta looks at me quizzically. He's looking for an answer. He's still smiling, but his eyes are flooded with nerves. I simply nod, sending the audience into another wave of ecstatic screams, and pull him towards me for another kiss.

**AN: Here you have it! Sorry it took a while, I have absolutely no experience at writing proposal speeches so yeah… took a while. At least I'm prepared now for any relationships that evil dictators with puffy lips might force upon me…?**

**Hope you guys enjoyed this, thanks for the responses so far. Hopefully I'll be posting the new chapter very soon. Please review!**


	4. Party

When the initial chaos has died down – taking around thirty minutes, I estimate, and added time to escort out the six or seven Capitol women who fainted – Caesar tries to draw back our attention to the interview. Peeta and I vaguely answer his questions but never, not once, does our gaze leave the other's face. On Peeta's face, an endless grin and a few tears that I kiss away, earning an "aaww" from the audience and crew alike. It would take one thing, and one thing only, to separate my eyes from his, now.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm getting an announcement that we're about to have a very special guest here on the show tonight…"

The smell of blood and oh-so-sweet roses fills my nostrils. The smell is so pungent I want to retch.

Blood… and roses.

"…Welcome to the show, President Snow!"

The Capitol audience are clapping, but I don't hear it. I can't even see them anymore. Not even Peeta can claim my attention as I turn my head – why does everything feel so slow? – and lock eyes with the one man who can destroy my entire being at the click of his fingers.

"Congratulations," he's saying, and he's shaking hands with Peeta. We're standing, now? I have just enough time to wonder how that happened when he's turning to me. His arms are outstretched. I can't back off, Peeta's arm is around my waist. I have no choice but to step forwards and accept the hug of the man who, given the chance, would probably have me executed simply because of all the trouble I have caused him.

"Was it enough?" I find myself wondering, and am shocked when I realise that I have said it aloud. He tenses. I feel him slip something into my hand as we both pull away but do not dare look at it. Peeta's arm is back around my waist. I keep up the easy, comedic banter between us – something about asking my mother for permission – but all the while I cannot help the uneasy shivers that creep up my spine. Why didn't he just nod, or shake his head? That would have done, surely. The little piece of paper in my hand has done nothing but scare me.

When it is time for us to go I fix a smile upon my face and follow Peeta obediently off the stage. I think I was expecting privacy but of course, we are given none – two people whose entire relationship has been nationally broadcast can never expect privacy, the only luxury I would quite happily sell my soul to obtain. Especially now, with President Snow's message in one hand and Peeta in the other. As I look at him, and he is smiling at me, I can't figure out what I want more; to read the note or to be alone with the boy with the bread.

My fiancé.

I don't even get the time to reflect on how those words make me feel when we are converged upon by a squealing mass of stylists – Peeta's prep team is a little more conserved than mine, but this does nothing to stop them from all jumping at us, demanding hugs and air kisses and recognition for their tears. "I haven't stopped crying once since you stepped out on that stage," Octavia sobs, hugging me.

"I knew it! Didn't I say I knew it?" Flavius gushes, pumping Peeta's hand up and down.

When we have got rid of them, we have yet more people to face – Haymitch shakes Peeta's hand and hugs me and doesn't say much, but I can tell by the smile on his face – sincere, this time, rather than cynical – that he is at least a little pleased for us. Then Effie, who is in floods and is insisting that "she always knew we were pearls" (what this has to do with anything I have no idea). Portia and Cinna are hugging us, and when Cinna does he whispers in my ear, asking me if I've "figured it out yet". I pull away to frown at him but he simply mouths "give it time". I am whisked away, still clutching Peeta's hand, overwhelmed by pervasive confusion.

We are not given any time alone in the car, where Effie wastes no time in babbling constantly about wedding dresses and – oh! Wouldn't it be lovely if Cinna could design it for me? There could even be mockingjays at the wedding, don't you think, Portia? We are not given any time alone in the flat, where our prep teams dive into preparing us for the party at President Snow's, moaning about having had to separate us – "you look so cute together". We are certainly not given any time alone together at the party, where we are endlessly besieged by people who want things of us – pictures, kisses, handshakes, invites to the wedding or simply recognition – when all we want from _them _is a little time alone.

We gain some respite when Peeta leads me to the dancefloor, but we are still the subject of such constant examination that we dare not really talk. My hands explore his face, his chest, his arms, as he sways me gently to the music, his arms clamped firmly around my waist. When I am content with my wanderings I simply lean into his chest and let Peeta do all the work. One of his hands wander up into my hair and he asks me if I am happy. I nod, my throat suddenly restricted for some reason, and lean up to kiss him.

I am happy. I can't possibly hope to explain it, but I am. _Why _am I happy? I shouldn't be. I have no right to be. Marriage is a serious business, I know, and not to be trifled with. It shouldn't be approached uncertainly, with one of the party uncertain as to whether they want this. It certainly shouldn't take place between two people who were pushed together not out of fate or a mutual desire to be together but out of a need to survive.

What will my mother say?

What will Gale, who I had always told I would never get married, think when he sees the footage of Peeta and I embracing so openly after his proposal? Gale knows me better than anyone. He would have seen the joy in my eyes – the joy I did not, for some reason, even have to think about creating. It was natural. An instinctual response. My instincts have always saved me in the past, but now it feels like they might be the death of me.

Gale. My mother. Peeta. I don't love Peeta. Do I? I can't do. I never have. Cared about him, certainly. Craved his body. But never loved him.

So why, thinking about marrying him, am I so happy that I cannot even speak?

I feel sick. Must be the seafood. At least, this is what I manage to splutter out to a startled Peeta as I tear myself from his arms and sprint for the bathroom. I barely make it when I am sick, the foul smelling, burning bile forcing its way up my throat as I clutch the toilet bowl in an effort not to fall face first into it. I am vaguely aware of a pair of hands gathering my hair so that I do not get sick in it. I feel the hands comb through it, braiding my hair much in the same way that my mother does. Once I am done I see them pass me a glass of water and I have to sip at it before I can thank the anonymous carer with a voice hoarse from the acid torture it has just endured. "Thank you," I whisper. My hands are shaking.

"You're welcome," replies President Snow.

In an instant I am on my feet, my back against the wall. My eyes, I know, must be wide as saucers. I am glancing at the door, at the window that lines one whole wall of the bathroom, looking for a way out. The President takes this in and chuckles. "My dear, I'm not here to hurt you. I merely didn't see you at our meeting and assumed you were otherwise engaged." His eyes flicker in distaste to the toilet. "Which was a correct assumption, in a way. Did my seafood not please you?"

I cannot answer him. I am frowning. Our meeting? I think of the little piece of paper that I had left, in my confusion, on the floor of the bathroom at the flat. Oops. "I don't have any complaints about the rest of the food," I say, trying to imitate his casual tone but failing when all that comes out is a harsh growl. I clear my throat, but to no avail. "The oysters are a little slippery for my taste."

He smiles. I can't help but wonder at that smile – it's not the evil, menacing one that I remember from Victor's Village. It's… weary. And almost a little sad. He notices my confused gaze and sighs, shaking his head. "My child, you have no idea." He shakes his head again. "No idea at all."

About what?

"About the effect you can have," he continues at a murmur, turning to gaze out of the window that gives a perfect snapshot view of the glittering city below – so different, so much shinier than the view from my bedroom at home. Something about his speech makes me uneasy – he is copying something Peeta said, I think. A long time ago. But there were no cameras, then – so how can he know? I am contemplating this when he speaks again. And what he says next makes my stomach drop so far that I am almost certain that if I had any food inside me I might be sick again. "In answer to your question, Katniss, no, it wasn't enough."

I have to think about this for a second before it hits me.

It wasn't enough.

They're still going to rebel.

Prim, Gale, my mother, Peeta, Haymitch... I have failed them. Failed everyone in the Districts.

But… I'd been so sure. No one could have doubted us. We were the perfect couple, on and off screen. I thought I'd convinced everyone.

It comes to me now, why I'd been so happy when Peeta proposed: because not only had I succeeded in convincing the whole of Panem, I had succeeded in convincing myself.

And now it was all meaningless.

"You did an admirable job, Katniss," Snow is saying. He sounds far away. "But it just wasn't enough. My advice to you now is just to… just to enjoy the time you have left with Peeta."

He sounds so absurdly sad. It's almost like… almost like I convinced him, as well. Those were his instructions, after all, as he sat opposite me in my home the day that the Victory Tour began. I should be proud. All I can muster up is an inescapable sadness.

"It was all for nothing," I hear myself say. It as if someone else is saying it, though, and I can't control the tears that are breaking free for the first time all day. "Being with Peeta, making him _happy_, getting engaged… all for nothing."

I hear him sigh through my haze of desperate despair. One of his hands – the hands that had been braiding my hair, absurdly – pats me on the shoulder. "I don't think it was for nothing, Katniss," he murmurs. "Do you?"

And then he is gone, leaving me to stuff my fists into my mouth so that the sobs do not escape.

-x-

"Katniss?"

Knocking. Frantic knocking. Then Peeta, panicked, "she's not answering, Haymitch" and then they're battering the door with their shoulders. I watch it all unfold with a vague sort of wonder. When they finally manage to get the door open Peeta is by my side instantly and Haymitch is nursing his arm. He must have jarred it trying to get the door open. "Katniss?" Peeta is frantic, waving his hands in front of my eyes, trying to engage my attention. All I can do is keep my eyes on his. "Are you hurt? Did you fall?" I shake my head.

"I'm fine, Peeta," I manage to say. We are both shocked at how weak my voice sounds. "It's just… bad reaction to the food." He doesn't look convinced. Still, he nods, and bends down to pick me up, cradling me like a child in his arms. I begin to protest – it's fine, I can walk – but he is already in fast discussion with Haymitch, arranging to meet Effie at the train station. He carries me to the door of the bathroom and then has to let me go – we both know, of course, that if I allow Peeta to carry me out of this door an entire crowd of our new Capitol "friends" will swarm, desperate for the gossip. He keeps a firm hand on my waist, though, for which I am grateful. God bless Peeta Mellark, who will stay with me forever and a day if that is what it takes. I clutch at his other hand and stumble through the crowd.

We do not say goodbye to anyone. I know that if Effie were there, she'd protest, but she is not here. I can't bring myself to care about a little broken social protocol, anyway.

As Peeta guides me into the car I realise that, for the first time in days, we are completely and utterly alone together. When he shuts the door behind him I fold myself into his arms completely, resting my head on his chest. My heart flutters when his arms snake around me to hold me so tightly that I am, for a moment, given the illusion of total security. I let my eyes close as he strokes my hair and feel myself become more relaxed than I have been in weeks.

"What happened?" Peeta whispers. Immediately, I am tense again. "We don't have to talk about it here," he murmurs, but I can tell from his tone that he is desperate to know what happened. This could be difficult: do I let him know what really happened in that bathroom? Why I ran away to throw up my dinner? I can't – then, of course, he'd know. Know that this wasn't really our engagement party. If I told him what Snow had said in the bathroom, he'd know it was our grand send off before we are either disposed of or torn apart, judging by Snow's little speech.

_Just… enjoy the time you have left with Peeta._

Peeta is waiting. I am panicking. What _can _I tell him, if not that? That Snow just wanted to congratulate me on how well my acting skills have come on? Oh no, Peeta, you didn't think I was _really _in love with you, did you? Of course not. I was just playing.

Again.

I lift my head off his chest and smile sadly at him as he stares uneasily down at me. "Just… just had a couple of flashbacks, that's all. Of the arena."

It sounds so tinny and fake to me that I am surprised when Peeta's face forms a sympathetic grimace. He leans down to kiss me on the forehead, and I know that I am off the hook.

_Not forever_, a little voice at the back of my head whines at me. _You can't lie to him forever, Katniss. What happens when you're getting married and he tells you he loves you, and you can't say it back?_

I think it over, visualising it. Peeta stands before me in a clean shirt, black trousers. There's other people there but they fade into the background as I stare at him. He smiles at me. Mouths it. _I love you._

I snap out of my daydream and find myself wide eyed and stunned when I realise that I want to say it back.

"Katniss? We're here."

I sit bolt upright, looking blearily out of the windows and rubbing my eyes. We're pulling up alongside the train. I glance at it, suddenly uncertain – do I want to get back on it, knowing that it will take me home and to the assorted issues that that might bring? Peeta nudges me, holds out his hand. I take it and he smiles at me as he helps me out of the car and onto the train, draping his jacket over my shoulders. That smile is the reason that I vow not to think about it, anymore. Not tonight.

Tonight I will fall into Peeta's bed and enjoy him until the sun comes up.

Tomorrow is a new day.

-x-

**AN: Thank you guys so much for the amazing responses for the last chapter! Thought I'd reward you with a quick new chapter.**

**Apologies to maryclumsykatherine – sorry! It'll all sort itself out!**

**And ElvenComparison, YES, that is exactly what I was trying to convey! I don't know if I sometimes miss bits of Katniss' thoughts out so let me know what you think about her decision making process in this chapter :)**

**Thank you everyone!**


	5. Games

Snow has begun to fall in District Twelve: as I stand by the fence in the meadow, rubbing my arms, I am transfixed by the steady trickle of feathery white flakes that within minutes have coated the buildings and people alike with a light dusting that looks not dissimilar to the way Peeta sometimes decorates his cakes. But when Peeta decorates cakes, it doesn't threaten people's lives the way the snow does: the people who are already cold and hungry become colder and hungrier by the day. My mother will soon see the annual influx of those suffering from hypothermia, flu or just plain hunger. They come to her because they do not know what to do. It's ironic, really, because as her stock of available medicines grows smaller by the day, soon she will not know what to do, either.

I shiver, glancing into the smothering blanket of white cloud that feels less like cloud and more like a wall. A prison cell that blocks out the sun – and with it, life. Snow reminds us that the Hunger Games don't just happen once a year; our people, usually so calm and helpful, will soon turn to stealing, bribing or hurting others in an effort to keep loved ones alive. I suppress a shudder at the thought that I am currently dwelling in an arena not so far from the one that I fought so hard to escape.

"Katniss?"

I whirl around, suddenly on full alert; with my head so full of sombre musings I had forgotten why I was there. I only have to glance at him to have it all come rushing back.

_Gale._

He is thinner than he was before – or is that just my imagination? Suddenly, my weeks of gorging on rich food and throwing away what I could not eat feels like the worst sin imaginable. Dressed in his filthy miner's shirt and coal dust coated trousers, Gale provides a sharp contrast to the pure white of the powdery snow falling around us. We stare at one another with bated breath.

I am at a loss for how to act around him, something which has not happened during the course of our entire friendship. Should I hug him? He shakes his head, though, when I step towards him. That hurts more than the thought that I had previously been entertaining – that he might just not turn up. As I examine the barely veiled sadness in his, I can't help but selfishly think that it might have been better if he had stayed away.

"How are you?" As soon as I have spoken I realise how forced, how ridiculously _polite _the words sound, and I wish I had not said anything at all. Perhaps Gale hears this too, because his next words are just as civilly distant.

"Fine, thank you," he says politely. A pause. "They've been giving me more shifts down the mines." All of a sudden I notice the way his skin is so ashen from lack of sunlight, the deep black circles beneath his eyes that I want to touch, to wipe away. His eyes drop from mine. His next words are a whisper. "Rory signed up for tesserae."

My stomach drops. Despair for Gale's inability to avoid the one thing that he had always pledged to help his brothers escape floods through me, tinged with a layer of guilt: there I had been, worrying about how _I _had been affecting Gale. I had never for a moment thought of his family, the circumstances that are suddenly so much worse than mine. I do not hesitate, this time, when I step forwards to curl my arms tightly around his neck. He pauses but reciprocates, winding his muscled arms around my waist. I cannot breathe, but I do not care. For a second it feels like I am back where I am supposed to be – back in the familiar realm of Gale's protecting arms. I close my eyes and think of nothing but the premature grief that we share for poor little Rory, who we had fought so hard to save from our fate. The grief bonds us, making us one person. I am as much his family as he is mine.

"Better not let your fiancé see us like this."

All at once, the spell is broken. Any façade of closeness between us has dissolved, leaving behind it only an unbearable silence. I don't know how it happens but suddenly we are separated. He won't look at me. I know that if we are to discuss the one thing that we must discuss, we must do it now.

"Gale, I…"

But I don't know how. I've never let anyone down before – as I look at him, my best friend, standing there looking so ill and helpless despite the muscles and the cynical smile, I'm not sure if I even want to. It had all been so clear cut on the Victory Tour – Peeta and I sharing a bed, his spontaneous proposal, the way his touch burns its way into my core and makes me ache for more. I'd thought that I could… that it would be alright, claiming Peeta for my own. I hadn't ever spared a thought for the people who had already claimed me.

One look at Gale is all it takes to tell me that it isn't as easy as all that.

"I'm sorry," is all I can get out in a whisper. Just as he had done, I let my eyes drop to the floor so that I cannot see whatever is raging through his.

Suddenly my face is in his hands and he's gently tilting it up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. I am struck by how close we are, by how green his eyes are. The colour of the woods. "Just tell me one thing, Catnip." He's chosen that word on purpose, I know that – it says _history_. We have history, Katniss, and what do you have with the Mellark boy? "Do you love him?"

I can't answer. I _can't_. I know I should, force out some non-committal response or half-formed lie, but the words stick in my throat and burn it like bile. I am left with my mouth flapping open like a fish. Gale smiles at me, and suddenly a little of the sadness in his eyes has mysteriously gone. "I thought not," he says. He leans in even closer. I can feel his breath on my lips. "I don't know what's going to happen, Katniss, but…" a kiss, gentle and chaste, on the lips. Peeta's lips. But then why do they mould so easily around Gale's, and why is the heat he provides so… nice? "I'll be fighting too."

And then he is gone, leaving me reeling and clutching at thin air.

-x-

It takes me ten minutes for me to make the decision to move. It takes a further twenty for me to make the five minute walk back to Victor's Village. It takes so long because I keep stopping, contemplating doubling back and seeking Gale out, demanding he be my friend again and let the barriers between us fall.

But something at the back of my mind reminds me that I gave up the privilege of Gale's friendship when I acted so selfishly on the Victory Tour.

It's come down to the choice that I have been building up to since I kissed Peeta in the cave in the Games.

Gale… or Peeta?

Something tells me I don't really have a choice; I'm in too deep with Peeta, now. Isn't that the ring he gave me sitting on my bedside cabinet at home? Don't I spend most every night in his bed, much to the chagrin of my mother and the amusement of Haymitch? Don't I miss him, strangely, whenever he's not around, yearn for his touch, his kiss?

But still the urge to run back, hug Gale and tell him I'll do anything to make him happy again is so, so tempting.

Deep in thought, I wander past the house that I share with my mother and Prim and end up halting, a little bewildered at how I've come this far, on Peeta's front lawn. For a moment my confusion is penetrated by an amusing feeling of irony. Whoever rolls the dice that rules my life is sure doing a brilliant job.

"Katniss?" Peeta is just coming out of his door, presumably on the way to the bakery to see his parents. He smiles when he sees me, a smile so unequivocally happy that it makes my heart melt, and I can't help the surge of bitter satisfaction that I send mentally in Gale's direction: at least _someone _will always be happy to see me. With my egocentric revenge in mind, I allow myself a smile back despite the sadness I had been trying to conceal. Because Peeta knows me, and if he sees even the slightest flicker of my unhappiness in my eyes he will have to ask what is wrong. And I don't think I can tell him that.

Regardless of my efforts, my smile apparently isn't convincing enough. A slight frown clouds Peeta's face and he steps forward to take me in his arms. This isn't the response I'd been expecting - I'd been anticipating awkward, unanswerable questions. I melt into his arms, burying my face into the jacket that always smells of freshly baked bread, and feel some of the confusion drift away. "Are you coming inside?" Peeta murmurs against my hair. I pull back to frown at him – isn't he going to his parent's? – but he silences my questions with a kiss. "Come on," he smiles, and starts pulling me back towards the house. "They can wait."

I allow myself to be tugged inside and try not to feel guilty as I feel myself drifting a little further away from my best friend.

**AN: sorry this chapter was a little non-eventful and also a bit short – the next few should be a little more exciting. Question: how would you guys expect Gale to "fight" for Katniss? What's his best way in? **

**Thanks for reading, guys, please review!**


	6. Courage

Winter comes, stays, lingers frostily like a tedious guest unaware that they have overstayed their welcome. Gale works seven days a week, most weeks, and the weeks that he does have Sundays off he spends with his family. I know from Hazelle, who comes to clean Haymitch's house every third day now, that he's taken the tesserae again. We don't talk about this, much in the same way that we don't talk about Rory doing the same, the one thing he swore he would make sure never happen. Mostly we don't talk at all.

In the absence of my best friend I have thrown myself into the life of a victor. I live as a victor should live: I stay in with Peeta, adding to my father's book of plants and herbs. I take walks with Prim in the meadow, collecting herbs and watching for the first dandelions of spring. I visit Haymitch, make sure he is eating. I do not go into the woods. I do not hunt. I do not go to the Hob, where my absence has surely been put down to my being a victor now, too good to deal with any of them.

In short, I do not live.

It's easy to become frustrated in this world, where I feel like everything is made of glass. One push, one scream, one unrestrained moment might destroy it and shards of razor sharp Snow will cut us to ribbons. I try so hard not to snap because what if fragments of the version of me who does not belong in this perfect fragile world should break free? Someone could get hurt.

I think sometimes that it is like living inside one of Haymitch's liquor bottles, perfectly preserved and deceptively transparent – like water, almost. You wouldn't know that inside that water-like liquid lurks a hidden poison.

I find this out on a night that the nightmares have been particularly bad. Peeta has gone to dinner with his parents and will be coming home late. I wait up for him, straining to hear his soft familiar steps on the landing, but I know that he will not come here. When he has been to see his parents Peeta always wants to be alone. So I am alone tonight, and it is perhaps because of this that the nightmares attack with a vigour that cannot be easily dissuaded. I can't remember them when I wake, nor can I speak, and I can tell by the overwhelming silence in the house that I have screamed more than just myself awake.

So I slip out of the house, away from sympathetic thoughts and looks. Sympathy is not what I need. Empathy is what I need tonight. I realise as I pass Peeta's house without meaning to that I intend to mix empathy with good hard liquor. If it works for Haymitch, why can't it work for me?

When I cross Haymitch's threshold without a sound, it is almost as if he has been expecting me. His eyes find me in the shadows and stay with me, glinting eerily from the flickering fire that is the only source of light. Haymitch does not sleep when it is dark out. Why should we submit to the night when we can defeat it, watch the sun come up in half-conscious defiance? He goes to make a sarcastic question but instead takes in the blood on my chin from where I have bitten my lip in an effort to restrain the screams, sees the glazed, set eyes, and passes me the bottle without speaking. When I sit beside him on the loveseat, he knows to speak first.

"I could hear you from here, sweetheart," he says, and the term of endearment is no longer sarcastic but is what it is meant to be: soft, sad, soothing. This isn't the Haymitch I know. But have I ever really known Haymitch? The only one I have met is the drunken, sarcastic, conspiring Haymitch born out of the Games. Just like the only Katniss he knows is the manipulative, violent one who nine times out of ten is covered with blood when he sees her. I don't know the old Haymitch. I'm not sure if he does, either. I wipe the trickle of blood from my cheek and do not respond, passing him the bottle.

"You don't deserve him, you know."

It's true, but it still hurts. I take the bottle from his still dry lips and swallow it without letting it touch my tongue. "I know."

"You're going to break his heart."

He takes the bottle back, forces me to reply. "I know."

"You're going to end up killing him."

I can't respond, this time. Haymitch shakes his head at me. We sit in silence for a while. It is a surprise when he speaks again.

"Maysilee Donner was a friend of your mother's," he whispers. I frown: the name is familiar, but I can't place it. What does she have to do with anything? "I expect she hasn't mentioned her. No one does, not anymore." He chokes out a bitter laugh and takes a swig from the bottle. "When you lose the Games, you don't just die. You disappear."

Something clicks – a clip from a past Game, perhaps, one of the less frequent ones from the stream of news bulletins on our television sets that play nothing else. "Maysilee… was in the arena with you?" I am hesitant, but the instant I say it Haymitch sighs so heavily it is as if his body is deflating, and I know that I am right.

"We were allies for a while." His voice is soft, like I've never heard it before, and I cling to his every word. "We got down to the final few. I didn't want to have to kill her, and I'd like to think she didn't want to have to kill me either. Guess I'll never know." He pauses to take a swig from the bottle. I frown into the flames, hypnotised by the way the fire caresses the coal so sensually before it digs its smoking claws into the fuel, sustaining its own life by the destruction of meaningless lumps of dull, colourless coal. I shake my head. It's only coal, Katniss.

"So… you split up?" I ask. Haymitch nods.

"She went her way, I went mine." There is a pause, and when I take the bottle from him I dare not comment on the way that his face is slick with unrestrained tears that both scare and please me – it's good to know that whatever Haymitch might pretend, a victor can never be totally soulless. "Only took a moment or so for the screams to start. I held her hand while she died." The liquor burns my throat. I like it. It numbs the feeling elsewhere until the only pain is in my neck and the hole where my heart should be. "Should've been me. Should've been me. And look at me now. Waste of a life. I know that's what her sister thought, when I went to the mayor's house on the Victory Tour."

A pause.

"I could save a hundred thousand lives and still I'll be nowhere close to Peeta. Because he had the courage to die, if that's what it took for you to live." He shakes his head. His nails are digging into his palms so hard that they draw blood. "Should've been me."

When Peeta finds us in the morning, I am curled against Haymitch's chest with my feet tucked up on the sofa and his arm is wrapped around my shoulders. Our position is a desperately painful repetition of the way Peeta and I looked on the loveseat at our last interview with Caesar. Peeta looks at me questioningly but I shake my head, allow myself to be helped out of the door and into his home, into his bed, where he tucks me in and strokes my hair until I fall asleep. I am distinctly aware of a sense of self-hatred, so keen it makes my stomach churn. What was I doing, thinking I could let Peeta die if it meant saving myself? What was Haymitch doing, thinking only to save me if he could in the arena? Haymitch is right. Neither he nor I will ever match up to Peeta. If anyone of us was going to live, I would rather it was him.

"It should've been you," is the last thing I mutter before sleep and alcohol take me over.

-x-

The first thing I am aware of is three pairs of sparkling eyes, staring at me as I sleep in Peeta's arms.

The second thing is the vomit forcing its way up from my protesting stomach.

I push my way past my startled prep team – "Surprise!" they squeal – without pausing to acknowledge them and make it to the bathroom just on time to thrust my head into the sink. The liquor may have numbed me on its way down but on its way back up it burns every part of me. The bathroom is tilting, tipping me from side to side so that it is all I can do to cling onto the cool ceramic and try not to fall over – but then his arms are around me, and I am steady. I grasp at him, drink in his solidity. I am too grateful for his presence to feel even mildly ashamed as the acidic contents of my stomach force their way out.

"Katniss?"

I groan on the inside at the sound of that squeaky, timid voice. Octavia is the less queasy of the three (which she informed my many times while she hosed me down the first time we met, which I still don't know if I should have taken personally). Sure enough when I glance into the mirror, there she is: with her eyes so wide it just adds to the electric blue impression that her hair, standing up in a halo of wavy spikes around her head, gives of being permanently shocked. It would be comical, but all I can do is groan and spit into the basin again. This is too much even for Octavia, who turns on her heel and runs squealing down the stairs.

"Photo shoot day." Peeta smiles, kisses the top of my head.

"Photo shoot day," I mutter. For me, it's twelve hours of being stripped of my hair like a wild rabbit, forced to stand in ridiculous shoes and trying "not to look so hostile" (as Haymitch puts it) for the camera. For Peeta, it's a chance to chat and laugh with his stylists, smile effortlessly as he always does and… I can see in the reflection of his eyes, suddenly bright with excitement, that it's just another step closer to marrying me.

I groan and heave bile into the stainless white sink.

By the time I am done, I am too empty and too lifeless even to move, but my prep team coax and bully me out of the house and into the one next door where they proceed to shave, pluck and paint me from head to toe. Their attempts to make small talk make my ears ring, so the torture takes place in a deathly silence that is even worse than the noise, as I can hear every moan, every tut as they despair over my effortless self-neglect. I am too busy keeping down the tea that my mother has forced me to drink, though, to care.

The photo shoots seem to take an age, but finally they are gone and when I am free of all make-up and hair product – which I can honestly say I had no idea even existed before the Games began – I shoot downstairs, gratefully take the proffered bowl of stew my mother offers. "I'm going to eat this at Peeta's, is that okay?" I shout over my shoulder, my hand already on the door handle.

"I had hoped you might stick around and talk to me, first." A soft voice from behind me makes me whirl around. Cinna. It takes me a moment to remember why the sight of him makes me so anxious, so defensive. Of course – he'll want to talk about Peeta.

_Oh, no._

"Shall we?" He's smiling as he gestures to the empty living room, but the tone of his voice leaves no room for disagreement. My minute rebellion is slouching and dragging my feet as I drag myself past him through the door, but I cannot resist him. He shuts the door behind us. Taking my hand, he leads me to the sofa, pulls me down beside him. "So," he says softly.

"So," I whisper back. Then, without warning, I'm crying and my arms are around his neck.

I talk.

I tell him how happy I am, honestly, whenever I'm in Peeta's presence. How guilty I feel to think of Gale when I'm with him. How amazing Peeta is, the boy who had the courage to die for me if that's what it took for me to go on living even if he wasn't there to see it.

How much I miss my best friend.

How little I deserve to miss him, when that is all that I can give him.

I tell Cinna that I am scared – beyond terrified – about so many things. About what Snow meant when he told me to enjoy my time left with Peeta while I still could. About what Peeta would feel if he even got the hint that I wasn't quite as in love with him as he supposed. About our wedding day, and what that would do to Gale. Gale, who has kept me alive all these years, who loves me and looks after me and would do anything for me, given the chance.

I tell him that I am so, so confused. Because no matter how bad I feel about Gale, the thought of not being with Peeta makes my head spin. I _need _him. He keeps me alive, the boy with the bread, in more ways than one. "But that's not enough reason for me to make him stay with me, is it?" I hear, for the first time, the desperation in my voice, and I fall silent. It comes to me that despite all my confusion over the whole situation, this is the first time that I've cried or spoken about it since that first night with Peeta on the train.

He strokes my hair. Says nothing. We sit like this, with his arms around me, until my tears have stopped and the pathetic sniffling that follows have almost died out. Cinna finally speaks.

"Does he make you happy, Katniss?" A nod. "Could you live without him? Honestly?" A definite shake of the head. "Then I think you have your answer." He smiles as I lift my head of his chest, frowning, to face him. What answer? "I can't tell you. But what I can tell you is that you're very, very lucky."

Then he's kissing me on the head, pulling himself away and leaving, making excuses to my mother about having aggravated Effie enough already by making the train wait. And then he's gone, leaving me more confused than I have ever felt in my life.

**AN: **Ahh I can't tell you how frustrating it is to write "confused Katniss" style when it's so clear in everyone's head! I just wanted to get across the feeling of battling loyalties and that she's so indebted to Gale for keeping her alive that she can't let herself abandon him (because we know what a thing Katniss has for debts). Anywho, sorry for the delay in posting, the next chapter should be soon. Thanks for reading, please review!HaH


	7. Quarter Quell

comes down to find Peeta gone (gone to Haymitch's)

realises she's pregnant

Curled against Peeta's warm, muscular chest it is difficult to imagine that I could have been so confused just the day before. His heart beats mere centimetres away from where I lie my head and, as I listen to its rhythmical thudding, I can feel myself drifting to sleep, full of peace and love for the man whose hands wander over my skin in a habitual way that I recognise from the Games, when he used it to check if I was still whole. I feel utterly complete as I allow myself to drift off on his bare chest, the warmth of his skin beneath my cheek.

Peeta kisses me awake when it is time: when I kiss him back and climb out of bed, I can feel his eyes upon my bare skin, drifting across each part of my body not unlike the way his hands had done moments before. But when he follows me, wraps his arms around my waist and turns me for another kiss, I know that the way he looks at me now is a thousand miles away from the way he has ever looked at me before. Love entwines with lust in a way that takes my breath away. I wonder – does he see the same thing in my eyes, too? From the way he smiles, I think he must.

We tear ourselves apart and dress, head downstairs to sit on the only sofa that faces the television set. I do not like this seat and avoid it as often as I can, even in my own home – but tonight it cannot be avoided.

"Should we be nervous?" Peeta wonders out loud as he pulls me to him. "It's not every day your wedding clothes get broadcast to the nation." I smile, but my thoughts run along similar lines. I, however, think not of the nation but of Gale. There isn't time to reply before the news bulletin is over and Caesar is sat with Cinna in the studio I've come to know and hate so much. Peeta's suits take only a moment to see, and his mock outrage at the fact that they've edited all but three of them out and the way that the crowd is clamouring to see my dresses, instead, is comical and laughter soothes my frazzled nerves.

When the dresses are being shown, I consider putting my hands over Peeta's eyes – isn't it tradition that the groom should not see the bride in her wedding dress before the day? – but he looks so happy, so ecstatic to see the pictures that I can't bring myself to do it. And when he turns to me, smiles, and tells me I look beautiful, it is all I can do not to tear him away and kiss him. I restrain myself, settle for a single peck. He wouldn't let me, anyway. He's transfixed.

And then, when it's over, Peeta lets me kiss him. Lets me bend him back over the arm of the sofa, lets me sit straddling his legs and lean forwards to kiss him, heated, passionate –

"…but don't tune out just yet, ladies and gentleman, because it's time for us to hear from President Snow."

Peeta jumps when I tear myself away from him to stare, suddenly engrossed, at the television. A special announcement from President Snow just so happening to coincide with the announcement of my wedding dress? It doesn't feel right. Peeta strokes my arms, asks me what's wrong. I shush him. Not the time for questions.

The camera flashes to President Snow, smiling in a way that might be charming were it not for his puffy snake lips, his devil's black eyes. I cannot help but stare at them, fixated, as he drones on about the rebellion, the Games. It's old news, so I can drown it out. It's when he comes to the new bit that I sit up straight, exchange a puzzled look with Peeta. The reading of the card? Peeta's never heard of it either, so we sit and listen intently.

And then comes the part that I never would have expected, not in a thousand years.

The first emotion that registers is confusion. What does that mean? The existing pool of victors? It takes Peeta's groan, and for him to pull me close to him and whisper "I love you" into my hair for me to realise what it means.

I am going back into the arena.

The second thing that I am aware of is an overwhelming nausea.

My legs, thankfully, react before my stomach does, and before I can think I am upstairs, kneeling before the toilet bowl as my stomach rages a violent, acidic battle against its contents. I can't think straight. I can't see straight. I remember…

"_You did an admirable job, Katniss, but it just wasn't enough. My advice to you now is just to… just to enjoy the time you have left with Peeta."_

Of course. Of course he wouldn't be planning on letting me live happily ever after. Of course he wouldn't let us slide out of the public eye quietly, respectfully. He can't let that happen, because while I am alive and well, the threat is still so very real. But he can't just remove me.

He intends to kill me.

In my mind, I am back at the party in his mansion. I can feel his phantom hands in my hair as they were in that bathroom: soft, rose white hands gently braiding, pushing it aside so that the axe can fall clean upon my neck.

I am vaguely aware of a feeling of hurt that Peeta has not come to me, but I allow him this moment of selfishness. To call him selfish feels cruel, inaccurate. After all, was I not thinking purely of myself when I agreed to marry him? When I pretended to be in love with him in the arena? When I didn't tell him what Snow had said?

It comes to me that if I had, we could have been away by now, living in the woods somewhere with not a care in the world apart from where our next meal might come from.

So… one of us will die.

As I try to stand up, I am wracked with another wave of nausea that drives me back to my knees. For a time there's no room to think of anything but the pain in my throat and the tears that burn my eyes. But when it eventually stops, all I can think of is Peeta. How would I feel, coming home without him? The pain that comes when I imagine this is no longer derived from the shame of coming back having killed him that I anticipated during the first Games. This time it comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere I don't quite understand. To live without him would be agony. Unliveable.

Peeta, I think to myself, cannot be allowed to die.

My head – and stomach – now much clearer, I pad downstairs and find myself alone. Confusion clouds my oddly calm mind as I contemplate where Peeta could have gone. To his parents? Surely not: he hardly ever speaks of them, and when he does it's with a bitter look in his eye that tells me not to ask more. I frown. Where would Peeta go, knowing that there's a chance he and I may be forced to go back into the arena together again? He, I am sure of it, will have gone through a similar thought process: despair at the thought of coming home alone; acknowledgement of the fact that if that is not to happen, you cannot come home at all. The realisation of exactly whose help you need to enlist in order to ensure the other's safety.

As this strikes me, I am suddenly at the door, my body having reacted before my mind really had a chance. I know where Peeta has gone.

Peeta has gone to Haymitch.

I mean to tear out of the house and into the neighbouring one, to put an immediate stop to Peeta's desperate little meeting with our undoubtedly drunken neighbour, but by the time I have reached the bottom step another wave of nausea strikes me. There is nothing left in my stomach but still I have to stop, panting, with my hands on my knees.

"Katniss?"

Were I well, I might spin around, demand to know who it is that has caught me off guard, but I am not well. I respond with a dull groan and spit into the snow.

"Let's get you inside."

I know, instantly, whose hands wrap around my waist, and guilt floods me because I didn't recognise my own mother's voice. I hear her murmur, telling a second person – presumably Prim – to get me some water. I am positioned on the sofa. Soft hands stroke my face, push the hair out of my eyes. I respond to her ministrations with a weak smile. "Thank you."

She does not respond. A glass is pressed into my hand and I lift it to my lips with shaking hands, rewarded for my efforts with cool water that soothes my acid-worn throat almost instantly. "Thank you," I whisper again. Prim rubs my back. The silence in the room is so oppressive that I feel hard pressed not to leave – since this would be cruel to both of them, who must be suffering as much as I, I speak instead with a falsely cheery tone that I am certain they can see through immediately. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I keep throwing up."

Prim's voice takes on the same fake jovial tone that I sought to emulate but is tinged with concern. "Something you ate?"

I shake my head. How bizarre it feels to be talking about food when my death warrant has been read out on the evening news. "No, it can't be. I've barely been eating for days. Even the smell of Peeta's cheese buns…" I make a face in a pathetic attempt to make Prim laugh. My only return is a small smile. My mother is frowning at me. I recognise the look from the many times she has dealt with a patient, sitting on our kitchen table back at home. This is the look that comes immediately prior to the inevitable diagnosis and prescription of bed rest, more water, a few pills.

"Katniss… have you been going to the toilet more frequently?"

I share a look with Prim and this time she does giggle: the question is so out of place, so random. "Um… I suppose so…"

"And have you had your period?"

The giggling stops short as we realise exactly what our mother is hinting at. I count in my head, number the days. I do this one, two, three times, refusing to accept the inevitable truth.

Oh, no.

I am pregnant.


	8. Haymitch

**AN: Sorry this took so long – enjoy! Thanks for reading/reviewing, means a lot.**

President Snow is sitting on a badly carved wooden throne on a plinth high above my head. Rose petals drift from the sky like snow, thick and fast, obscuring my vision in a disorientating, claustrophobic way. I raise my hands as if to try to stop them falling. Snow laughs at my efforts, and when he laughs his spittle splatters my face. I wipe it away and my fingers come away coated in the substance that turns out to be blood.

I look up at him and realise with a jolt that his throne is not, in fact, a wooden structure but is in fact carefully arranged corpses.

"Katniss? Katniss!" Prim is there, her lifeless body forming Snow's armrest as she calls out to me. Snow throws his head back and laughs, and more blood lands on my face, trickling down my chin. Prim's corpse calls out to me. Helpless. Unmoving. "_Katniss!_"

I sit up in bed, gasping, my fingers scraping frantically at the blood on my chin. As my hands encounter the cut on my lip, I realise that the blood belongs to me. Prim winces and puts down the breakfast tray she has carried into my room. She gently knocks my hands aside. "Here." With her sleeve, she wipes the blood away and then strokes my face until I am able to breathe steadily again. I smile weakly at her.

"Thanks."

She smiles in response but says nothing. I grimace as she moves to hoist the breakfast tray into my lap. The smell of cheese buns, once so tantalisingly delicious that my mouth would water with the merest of contact, makes my stomach churn. "I'm really not hungry," I begin hopelessly, but one look from my little sister is enough to tell me that I will not get away with not eating. Not today. Sighing, I reluctantly pluck a steaming bun from the tray – how did I ever eat these? They smell revolting – and bite into it with all the gusto I can fake. "Mmm." Prim smiles. Confident that I will continue to eat, she wanders away.

A week or so ago, I might have worried about Prim's uncharacteristic silence. Before the Quell announcement, it might even have frightened me. But today I refuse to dwell on such a silence, especially one so easily explained by any number of factors: for one, the Quarter Quell that hovers over all of our heads. The prospect of the possibility of losing me for a second time has been a little overwhelming for Prim, a fact that she is remarkably apt at bottling. My mother, on the other hand, has reacted extraordinarily well, throwing herself into the role of my carer with a strength and resolve that I have not seen within her in years. On the tray beside my plate resides the evidence of both her determination to take care of me in the remaining few weeks and her long experience as a healer: iron tablets to keep me alert for training; calcium to keep me strong; vitamins to keep me healthy.

Of course, the pills aren't just for my benefit. At the thought of the other organism profiting from my mother's expert ministrations, my stomach churns and I fight to keep down my breakfast.

_A baby._

My hand wanders to my stomach, lifts up the cotton nightshirt. Although it doesn't yet protrude visibly, I am sure I can see a difference: the once flat, toned surface has become softer, alien to my sensitive eyes. I firmly believe that I can feel it, sometimes, too, although my mother reassures me that it is nothing yet but a group of cells. Late at night I lie awake and try to repress my shudders at the light fluttering feeling from deep inside that I know cannot realistically exist.

We don't talk about it – I _can't _ talk about it. Once or twice Prim tried, attempted to convince me to tell Peeta, asked if I was happy, but the only response I could muster was a dull wheezing as my heart pounded and my airways collapsed in on themselves. The whole thing seems so unreal, so ridiculous, that to think about it and to realise that it is really happening is like being given an electric shock. Like the force field that stops tributes from jumping from the roof of the Training Centre, a boundary exists in my mind around the idea of _child _and I know, in my heart of hearts, that to push past that boundary will be impossible. There is nothing past that invisible wall but heartbreak and death, so I do not try to break it down. Even if I were to try, the probability of my inevitable death within the next few weeks hovers over me, making any attempt pointless. So I don't try.

Another reason for Prim's silence lies in this – in my acceptance of my premature demise. I have given up, and she can see it: regardless of the thing growing inside of me, I never intended to come home from the Quell. The day after the announcement I woke early and wandered out of the house. Haymitch was awake when I ghosted through his open front door, as though he had been expecting me. Odd, as I hadn't known where I was going, but standing on his threshold it was suddenly crystal clear what I wanted.

"I wondered when you were going to turn up," Haymitch drawled. Something was odd with his voice, and it took me a moment to realise that it was because he was sober. Stone cold sober. Looking more closely, I could see that his hands were shaking. He saw my quizzical expression and scowled. "The boy was here last night. Poured my liquor down the drain." He sighed. "Every last drop." I was suddenly full of pity for Haymitch, who looked so fragile and ashen in the early morning light, but the sense of urgency I felt with my newfound purpose pushed me on.

"Haymitch, I - " I froze. How do you say it? How do you ask someone to die? How do you convince them to let you die? Haymitch, sensing my internal struggle, chuckled darkly.

"You don't have to worry about not hurting my feelings, sweetheart, I ain't got none. Spit it out."

I can't. I was suddenly struck by how pathetic Haymitch looked, curled up in his armchair clutching his knife with shaking hands. If he were to go back into the arena, he would surely die. A younger victor would make mincemeat of my old drunk. Is that what I want? The answer is a resounding _no_; Haymitch might be pretty useless, but he's practically family. Involuntarily, images flash before my eyes: I see Haymitch, with a knife in his gut; Haymitch, being taken by the hovercraft; Haymitch's house, boarded up and empty save for all the ghosts that roam his glass-littered hallways…

I don't want Haymitch to die, that much is certain. But then what?

"The boy argues that since last time I resolved to save you, now I owe him," Haymitch's voice, barely a whisper, was layered with a sort of grudging respect. "And what he really wants is the chance to go back in. The chance to protect you."

I considered this. A year ago, I would have snapped his hand off at this offer. It meant I could come home. See my mother and Prim again. Maybe, this time, manage to keep my head down, stay out of the Capitol's way. My hands wandered involuntarily to my stomach as I considered the idea of a scenario where our child could be safe. Maybe if I did what they wanted, stayed away from any rebel action, maybe even spoke out against it, Snow would let my child live.

But I am not the same woman as I was a year ago. I glanced over to Peeta's house, where the lights were just starting to turn on, and I knew that a world without him was no longer a world that I wanted to be a part of. A part of me was surprised at this – how long had I been concerned only with self preservation, and the preservation of those I cared about most? Since when had my protective sphere of influence grown to include not only Gale and Prim and my mother but Peeta as well?

_Since you fell in love with him_, a voice very much like Cinna's whispered in my mind.

I suddenly became aware of Haymitch staring at me and pulled myself away from my reverie. _I love him, I love him_. It was, now, all too clear what I was doing there. What I wanted from Haymitch.

"If it is Peeta and me in the arena…" I managed to get out slowly. "This time we keep him alive." Haymitch nodded – he'd been expecting this – but I saw a flicker of something in his eye. Pain. I pressed on. "You _do _owe him, Haymitch, but not in the way that he says. You owe him the possibility of his life."

He shook his head. "But the boy said - "

"I'm as good as dead anyway, Haymitch," I interjected. "You know as well as I do that Snow wants me dead. I've caused too much trouble anyway." Haymitch frowned, torn, and I leapt on his indecision. In for the kill. "Please, Haymitch. Let him have a chance at life. Say you'll help me."

My heart raced. A minute passed, but it could have been an hour. Neither of us moved. Finally, Haymitch frowned, nodded. I hadn't realised I'd been leaning forward until I straightened. "Thank you," I murmured, trying to convey all of the gratitude I felt at his self-sacrifice in those two words. "Really. Thank you." No response. Haymitch reached for a liquor bottle, found it empty and dropped it, shaking, onto the floor. It shattered.

I was turning to leave when it happened. Hot, acrid bile raced to escape my body and landed in a foul smelling heap on Haymitch's porch. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. Suddenly Haymitch was there, shaking hands scooping up my hair and lifting it out of harms way. As I retched, I felt a dull sense of unease settle upon my empty stomach. I could practically hear the cogs grinding into gear in Haymitch's mind. Katniss, Katniss who is never sick, vomiting on his porch? Katniss, who never drinks, sick for no good reason? Katniss, who has been spending an inordinate amount of time in Peeta's bed late at night on the train…

It only took one glance into his eyes to know that he had figured it out. Haymitch and I have always had a way of communicating to one another, and I had never come to appreciate how deep that connection went until that moment. Pity, sorrow, joy and some sort of dark humour flashed through his dirty grey eyes before they settled on a grim sort of resignation. I stood, wiping my mouth and refusing to meet his gaze.

"Does the boy know?"

"Does the boy know what?"

We both jumped as Peeta approached, hobbling towards us on the leg he hadn't quite adjusted to yet. I smiled down to him, hopped down the steps into his open arms. "I'm sorry I took off last night," he whispered as I enveloped myself in his embrace. I felt my whole body relax at the familiar warmth. When we separated I saw his eyes settle on the vomit on the porch. My heart flew to my mouth and instinctively my eyes sought out Haymitch. He was watching me curiously, taking in my panicked expression, Peeta's confused frown. "Are you ill?" Peeta asked me, voice full of concern. My eyes still on Haymitch, I shook my head. Haymitch's nod was imperceptible.

"That was me." Haymitch drawled. "No thanks to you, _boy_. Do you have any idea how much that liquor cost?"

Peeta laughed, began to pull me into the house. They're talking about strategies and reapings and possible tributes but my mind is elsewhere, and –

An impossible fluttering feeling from just below my navel yanks me back into the present and sends my hands flying to my stomach and my heart racing.

I turn my thoughts away from alien life forms and succeed in returning my heart rate to its normal, less panicked rate. I throw myself into eating with an enthusiasm that leaves thought for little else. When I have finally managed to devour the remaining cheese bun, I pause for only a minute or two to see if it will stay down before I climb out of bed, strip, and reach absentmindedly for my hunting clothes, hanging as they ever do on the door of my wardrobe.

My stomach does a backflip when my fingertips encounter not the rough, weathered texture of my father's hunting jacket but instead a much softer, silkier substance. Instantly, I remember what today is.

Not only my stomach but my entire set of major organs performs yet more gymnastics when I turn to gape at the clock beside my bed and realise that I am late.

Within a matter of moments I have shoved the dress over my head and am struggling to pull it down as I rush out of my bedroom. Downstairs, I feel Prim rush over to me and help me to tug my dress into place before I see her. She wordlessly hands me my shoes and kisses me on the cheek. "Good luck," she says quietly. There is no time to gape at her, to wonder how she _knows_, as she is shoving me out of the door. No time. I'll have to run.

"I thought you weren't coming."

When I finally skid to a stop outside the house – the furthest empty one from ours in Victor Village – I am breathless and unable to speak. I bend over double and it is a few minutes before I can talk again.

"Sorry," I gasp. "I just - "

"This was your idea, Katniss. You don't have to do this."

The edge to his voice pulls me up short: why does he sound so angry? Then I straighten, look into his eyes, and I see it. The same look that I saw on the train when he realised I had been acting my love for him. It makes my heart break. Peeta Mellark, I realise, will never forget how I lied to him. Within an instant I have climbed the steps to the porch where he stands and I have thrown myself into his arms. It takes a moment before he returns the embrace.

"I'm sorry," we both whisper at the same time. Peeta chuckles but I choke back a sob, pressing my face into his shoulder. I wish every day that there were a way to make him realise how truly sorry I am. This guilt, I know, will never go away. The guilt I feel at having lied to him when he has shown me nothing but love will stay with me until the day I die.

Which might not be a long time in the coming, if I get my way.

"Are you ready?" Too soon, he's pulling away, gesturing inside. I glance past him into the sitting room and my heart leaps. Two loaves of bread sit on the table arranged before the fireplace. I nod. Peeta's face breaks into a smile – one that tells me of how long he's been waiting for this. I return the smile, kiss him, and let him lead me inside.

Together, we construct a fire. We toast the bread that Peeta made this morning. We eat. When Peeta tells me that he loves me, I tell him I love him, too. He asks me why I am crying and I tell him that it is because I am happy.

But as we settle down to watch the fire burn itself out, as the flames begin to die, I can feel my heart breaking.


	9. Guilty

After the toasting, Peeta throws us into a brutal training regime. Haymitch, who is still battling with the withdrawal, becomes so irritable that it is almost impossible on some days to coax him out of bed. Some days, Peeta coaxes him awake, talks him into fighting back, into fighting the symptoms. Other days, Peeta cannot rouse him, and only my whispered reminder of the promise he made me or bitter taunts can make him angry enough to push back the covers. Either way, at the end of the day we fall into a routine that never changes: we eat the food my mother has prepared, take the vitamins we have been prescribed, and sit on Peeta's porch in the warming summer air. Peeta will stroke my hair as I lie with my head in his lap, watching the stars. Haymitch will grumble incessantly, crack nuts that he is never going to eat, rant about his empty hands and how much he wishes for a drink. I roll my eyes and pretend to ignore him, but secretly I am glad for the ongoing distraction that our recovering mentor provides. Without him, there would be silence. And silence, at this stage, can only be filled with one thing; with thoughts. Thoughts of the incoming slaughter that hovers over all of our heads. Thoughts of the grim funeral-like silence that awaits me in my own home when seldom I should choose to return. Thoughts of Peeta, lovely, kind Peeta, and the thing growing inside me that is part of him.

Peeta spend almost every moment together now. Much to my mother's obvious disdain, I have long since begun the process of moving in to Peeta's home. It began with a toothbrush: it made sense to leave it next to Peeta's sink where I had forgotten it because I spent more time in his bed than in mine. Then it was a pair of shoes, absentmindedly left beside his front door. Steadily more and more of my possessions started to make the transition between my house and Peeta's until one afternoon, half joking and half terrified, Peeta suggested that I make the move permanent. So I did.

Of course, the more time I spend with Peeta, the further I slide from Gale. And of course, the more I try to push Gale out of my mind, the more I end up thinking about him.

"Katniss? Katniss, wake up."

I stir, blinking foggily in the dark nest of sheets that Peeta and I share. "Peeta?" I'm reaching for him, but he is out of arm's reach, perched on the edge of the bed. He isn't looking at me. "Peeta?" I say again, more urgency to my voice now. I push the tangled hair out of my eyes impatiently to frown at his back. "What's wrong?"

"You were talking in your sleep," he replies. It's not an unusual occurrence: Peeta strokes or kisses me awake at least once a night because of my uneasy murmurs or angst-ridden shouts. But this _is _unusual. I can't remember a time when Peeta has been so… unaffectionate. Not recently, anyway, and certainly never when I have just emerged from the dark, dangerous depths of my night terrors. I stare at him uncertainly. Two or three minutes pass and I am seriously considering rolling over and going back to sleep when it hits me. My stomach drops.

"Peeta…" I begin slowly. My fingers unconsciously grasp for him, although he is out of arm's reach. "Peeta, what… what did I say?"

His whole body tenses and I can tell I've hit the nail on the head. He doesn't answer me, though, so I prop myself up on one elbow and decide to wait it out.

But I've never been a particularly patient person, and between pregnancy and constant training, I am exhausted and, honestly, just want to lie down and go to sleep.

"Peeta…" I shuffle towards him and finally manage to touch him, stroking his shoulder. He still refuses to respond, so I move to sit behind him and gently rub at the base of his neck. "Peeta, I - "

"You said Gale's name in your sleep."

My fingers freeze between his shoulder blades as I contemplate this. Gale. Gale's name. Between _my _lips. In _our _bed.

I find myself staring at Peeta's back, wondering why it is that he has not left yet.

"I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper. And I am: I picture myself lying beside him as he whispers another's name and it kills me. "I know how that must have felt."

"Do you? Really?" Peeta's voice is low, but I cannot miss the dull tone that makes me want to throw my arms around him, apologise for ever having hurt him, make amends for every heartache, every tear. He snorts and shakes his head. "You have no idea of the effect that you can have."

Suddenly, whether it's the exhaustion or the hormones or the confusion, my patience is gone, and I'm pushing myself away from him, ready to stalk away. "Why do you keep _saying _that?" I demand, striding away from the bed. I'm reaching for my hunting jacket when his hand closes like steel around my wrist.

"Because you don't." I am yank my hand away but the sadness in his voice flows through my veins like morphling, calming me. He releases me and I turn to face him as he sinks onto the bed. He runs a hand through his hair. "Katniss…" he shakes his head. "You have no idea. After the Games, I was so sure of myself. So certain that I was what you wanted. That we'd be happy, now, away from the cameras and the interviews. And to find out that it was all a lie?" He laughs, but it's bitter. "It damn near broke my heart. In fact, I think it did. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it all became. Why would you want me – the spoilt baker's son who had never gone without anything in his life – when you could have Gale? Gale was your equal. Gale was everything I wasn't." I want to interrupt him and am on the verge of doing so when he shakes his head, effectively silencing me. He wants to talk. So I let him. "I began to wonder if, every time we'd kissed, it was his face you were picturing. It didn't help that I'd wake up on a Sunday and look out of the window to see you striding off to meet him."

I can't refrain any more. It's all so preposterous that I just have to do something. I can't let him think this of me. "Peeta, you're being – "

"Stupid? I know it might not make much sense to you, Katniss, but when I heard you saying his name in your sleep – "

I've never been one for big romantic gestures. I can muster the courage to voice the intermittent "I love you" when the occasion calls for it, but the rest of the time I am about as emotionally vocal as a dead slug. So it surprises us both when I throw myself into Peeta's arms and kiss him until we are both short of breath. "I love you," I murmur, my face pressed against his. "I love you."

I'm not sure if it is shock or rationality that calms him, but the man in my arms quietens. Peeta hesitates for a moment, gently pushing the hair out of my face. When he speaks, his voice is carefully contained. "You need to see him, don't you? To… to say goodbye." I nod tentatively. He nods, too, thoughtful. "That's why you were saying his name." I nod vigorously, relieved. Once again, Peeta's intuitive nature has taken over, pushed the jealous teenager aside and replaced it with a far more rational creature. I take advantage of the silence and pull him into bed. He curls up beside me, arms wrapped around my stomach in a way that never stops being blissfully peaceful. Another few minutes passes before he speaks again. "Katniss?"

"Peeta."

"I love you, too."

-x-

An unnatural looking mist is crawling menacingly up the valley. From my vantage point at the crest of the banks of the dip, I watch as it slithers between trees at knee-height, creeping tendril-fingers around the brush in a way that can only be described as sinister. When it reaches me, I childishly lift my feet onto the rock on which I sit rather than let it touch me. It curls around the stone, desensitised to my avoidance. I watch it for a while, lapping unevenly at the cool surface of my seating place, before I return my gaze to the woods.

A dull, uneasy feeling spreads though me. I have never felt such a way in these woods – our woods, as I have come to think of them. The fog is alien and unwelcome. Both impractical – as it limits visibility – and unseasonal – like snow in the Sahara – it is not something that I can welcome happily. Gale and I have never encountered such a persistent mist in all of our time in the woods. It seems to be the moving embodiment of the fact that times really are changing, now. As if to prove its point, here I am. Waiting, motionless, for my best friend. I have been here before, but never for so long a time. I have never had to wait for him before. Not for so long that I have wondered if he is even coming.

And it terrifies me.

I am still for so long that a doe, bright eyed and mystified by the intruding mist as much as I am, flits into my line of vision. I am not in the mood to hunt, but this is far too good an opportunity to miss. Barely moving, I lift my bow and reach behind me for an arrow, silently begging the doe not to flee whilst I simultaneously question her decision to remain here, in plain sight. I have just nocked an arrow and am taking aim when an arrow suddenly appears in her chest as if from nowhere. Without a thought I am spinning, bow steady in my practised hands, scanning the woods for the doe's assailant.

"Katniss?"

A voice from behind a tree. For a moment, I tense. But then I recognise the voice. Put the bow down. "Don't shoot me," Gale half-calls, half-laughs from behind his tree. I have lowered the bow by now, and something must tell him that I will not harm him, as he edges into plain view. I'm struck, suddenly, by how different he looks. Large bags under his eyes are the least of my concerns – why is he limping? And why does every movement seem to cause him to wince a little more, go a little paler? I do not think about it, find myself acting on an unconscious impulse when I race to his side. I throw myself into his arms. He wraps them around me without hesitation, but I can feel him squirm in pain under my desperate grasp. "Steady, Catnip," he murmurs. It's quiet, but the pain in his voice is unmistakable. I draw away to stare at him.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Gale shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. He smiles in a way that would be convincing if not for the pain in his eyes. "Can't a guy have any secrets?" He leans backwards against a tree – and this is his mistake. He gasps in pain and pushes himself a way, instinctively reaching round to touch his back: his fingers come away from the shirt sticky and stained red. Within a second, I am behind him, pushing his hands away. I gasp. Gale turns to me, the sadness in his eyes prominent even over the pain, to see me back away, my hands at my mouth. Tears swim to the surface of my eyes and threaten to break free. I meet his eyes, an unspeakable question in my own. He sighs. "So, I met our new Head Peacekeeper," he says. The casual tone of his words is defeated somewhat by the slightly deadened way in which he voices them. I can't quite manage to be confused by this new information: images of the back of Gale's white shirt, stained in a criss-cross pattern of angry red lash marks, swim before my eyes. In an effort to escape them, I throw my hands over my eyes, shaking my head minutely. I jump when Gale's hands are suddenly prising mine away. He's laughing at me. "Sorry. I know how you are with… gore."

I swat his hands away pathetically, wiping away unshed tears as I glare at him. "Come on. You need to see my mother."

He's shaking his head. "I've been."

This shocks me. I frown at him. "What? When?"

"When it happened. She's been coming to my house for the past few weeks."

My mouth falls open. "_What_? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

He shrugs. "I kinda guessed you had enough to be dealing with for now."

His tone is casual and even, but I am angry: I advance on him, hands curled into fists. His eyes widen and he steps back slightly. "Damnit, Gale!" I'm yelling now. "What does that matter? You think because I'm – because I'm _busy _– I'm not allowed to _care _about you?" I come to a stop about a foot away from him when I realise I'm crying. "You should've told me," I'm sobbing. Gale's wide eyes mirror the shock that I feel – when have I ever cried in front of him? He closes the distance between us and pulls me into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into my hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't…"

We stand like this for a few more minutes before I pull away, angrily wiping away the tears. I glare at him. Reach for his hand. "Come on. We're going to my mother."

"I told you, I - "

The look on my face silences him. I'm sure he can see my resolve to help him, to do something, in my grey Seam eyes, because he lets me drag him along in silence. Wriggling under the fence proves a little difficult for him, and soon the scabs are open, blood soaking his shirt. In an effort to distract him, I make him tell me what happened.

"Oh," he says, shrugging and then wincing when the torn flesh starts to move. "I was hunting. Came out with a handful of greens and a wild turkey." That's all? He sees the incredulity in my eyes and grins. "Yeah, I know. But I was a little distracted." He glances meaningfully at me and I duck my head. A blush swiftly covers my cheeks. "Anyway… I headed over to Cray's place – you know how he likes wild turkey – and I knock on the door, and there he is."

I frown. "Who?"

"New Head Peacekeeper."

I consider this, soaking up the implications. It's a sobering thought: 12, where you can starve to death in safety, has always lacked the perseverant persecution found in the other districts. We haven't had a new Head for as long as I can remember. I shiver at the thought that now, because of me, Snow might be paying attention to our quiet little district again. How thoughtful of him.

Gale continues. "Anyway, he's not as big a fan of hunting as Cray was. Tied me to this post and gave me fifty."

I gasp. Fifty? Gale must sense my horror, and he lets out a dark chuckle. "That's nothing. You haven't been by the square, have you?" I shake my head. He pulls me left, down an alley that leads to the square in front of the Justice building. I consider dragging him straight to my mother, but curiosity gets the better of me and I let him tow me along.

When we get to the Square, I almost wish I hadn't.

It's unrecognisable. What was once a wide, open, empty space is now cluttered with various dark apparatus that give off an aura of pain and death. In the corner nearest us, stocks; in the furthest one next to the Justice building, a gallows awaits us, the noose drifting ominously in the breeze, as if beckoning. I shiver and instinctively press myself closer to Gale.

"Something, isn't it?" He murmurs.

We remain like this for a few more minutes, transfixed by the swaying of the death-rope opposite us. But Gale is bleeding too heavily, now, and the need to get him to my mother has transformed from necessary to urgent. I hurry him to Victor's Village. The walk has never been longer. Gale has never been paler.

"Gale?" My mother is standing on the porch, staring. "I told you to take it easy," she reprimands him, but her tone is soft as she helps him into the kitchen. At once, it is a flurry of activity as the table is swept bare and Gale is helped onto it. My mother and Prim transform. I am transfixed by their sudden steely resolve, their pure knowledge. I watch as Gale's shirt is torn away from his mangled flesh. Watch as they apply various salves and medicines. Gale is whey faced as he grits his teeth through the worst of the pain. In the end, it's me who begs them to give him a painkiller.

"Please," I beg. "Please. Can't you see how much pain he's in?"

Eventually, with much begging and shouting from me, they concede to give him a shot of morphling. Gale is out of it almost instantly. My mother, knowing it would be useless to convince me to leave him, goes to bed, taking Prim with her. I take my seat beside the kitchen table, knowing it will be useless to try to sleep tonight.

At around eleven, Peeta knocks tentatively on the kitchen door. I turn to face him and at once am filled with guilt – had I even told him that I was going to the woods? Concern and relief are simultaneously etched into his face, along with something I can't place – is it pain? I realise, then, that my hand is still on Gale's face. I drop it instantly. "Hey," I say lamely. He smiles.

"Hey," he replies softly. He limps his way over to me and takes my face in his hands, leaning down to kiss me. Our lips are almost touching when Gale moans. In an instant, my hands are at his face, stroking him gently back into oblivion. It isn't until I hear Peeta sigh that I realise what it is I've done. "I'm going to bed." He says. Guilt floods me once again, and I stand, desperate to make him stay.

"Peeta - "

"Catnip?"

Gale's voice is foggy as he fights through the haze of painkillers. I sit down and squeeze his hand gently. "I'm here, Gale." And for the first time, I really am there, no longer distracted by thoughts of Peeta or training or Snow's sudden interest in the district.

"What happened to us, hmm?" I squirm at this, the thought that's been occupying the forefront of my mind for most of the evening finally aired. Gale laughs sadly. "And what happened to _you_, Catnip? What about never getting married? Was it all lies?" His usual eloquence is marred slightly by the strength of the morphling, but his words do not fail to cut me straight to the bone nonetheless. All of a sudden, I want to tell him that it is all lies, to beg for his forgiveness. But I can't. Peeta's face appears in my mind, his eyes so filled with love and kindness that I have to shut my own as guilt consumes me.

"I don't know, Gale," I choke out as honestly as I can. "I guess… it's not so much about what I wanted as… what I need." My words surprise even me; is this true? At what point did this relationship with Peeta become what I needed, trumping even my long standing friendship with Gale?

"You don't need me anymore?"

Gale's voice is so filled with sadness that I cannot stop myself from leaning forwards, placing my face mere inches from his as I gently brush his hair out of his eyes. "I'll always need you."

He's too close… and getting closer. I can almost taste the morphling on his voice. "I'm sorry. I know I said I'd be fighting…" he gestures hopelessly to his back. "…been kind of busy."

I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. And then he's leaning forwards, closing the gap between our faces, and his lips are so soft…

I stay until he falls asleep, stroking his face. And then I walk out of the front door and across the lawn to the house I share with my fiancé, and silently slip through the house like a shadow, pausing only to take off my boots before I slide into bed beside him. I do not sleep that night. In the morning, I get up early to undress and to wash the remnants of the tears of the night before from my face. If Peeta can see the guilt in my eyes when he wakes up, he doesn't mention it.

**AN: First of all, thanks for reading! It would mean the world if you would review, as it's really encouraging to see what people think of your work. Wasn't sure if I managed to pinpoint Gale in this one, so go ahead and let me know.**

**Secondly, the dedication for this chapter is split two ways – for ElvenCompanion (happy birthday chuck! I hope you liked the last chapter, sorry the birthday wishes are late!) and for everyone else who has reviewed or favourited or followed. Cheers! Love you all!**


	10. Encounters

Over the next few weeks, 12 becomes a hive of activity. If I had not been paying attention to the new Head Peacekeeper's actions before, I make up for it now, taking note of his every move. I see the way he smiles as he hangs banners with Snow's face on them around the Square. Watch him supervise the reparation of the fence with a smug look on his face.

When he burns down the Hob, the light from the flames penetrates his eyes so deeply that I can almost see the patriotic madness inside of them.

Peeta tries his best to distract me with training, but with only a week or so left until our departure, I am more focused than ever on the ruination of my home. I watch him struggle with my inability to train and try my best to draw my attention back to his efforts, but often to no avail; if it is not Thread that distracts me, then it is the occasional fluttering of – of _something_, some un-nameable thing, that stirs behind my navel, making my heart race. Sometimes, if it happens during training, I can't avoid the sharp intake of breath or the way my hand flies to my stomach. Sometimes I can't suppress the acidic bile that races up my throat, threatening to bubble to the surface and betray me. Most times, I make it inside and out of Peeta's sight before it happens, but once, I didn't quite manage to run fast enough and vomited all over the porch steps.

I had been expecting – or dreading – questions from Peeta, but he seems to have realised that, as with so many other things, I will tell him not so much when I should but when I am ready. The relief and gratitude that I feel at this trust is overshadowed, however, by the guilt. The shame that I feel at my silence only serves to drive us further apart. I am unable to speak to him for fear of what he's thinking, or what I might accidentally blurt out. So we hardly speak any more. When we touch, it is largely by accident. Lately I've woken up most mornings to find that he's slept in his studio.

But no matter how hard I think, try to figure out a way to tell him, the old fear always rears its ugly head and the silence wins again.

"Feeling a little distracted, are we?"

I glare at Haymitch, moving forward sheepishly to tug the knife, intended to hit the tree in his backyard, out of the ground. He lets out a dark laugh in response. He's feeling more than a little smug; this is the first time he's beaten me in an exercise like this, alcohol withdrawal nontheless. As I make my way back to the line that we'd been throwing from, I avoid the eyes of my two companions and throw myself onto the ground. I can feel Peeta's concerned gaze on the side of my head but allow myself a moment of childish embarrassment and simply tuck my legs up under my chin. I wrap my arms around them tightly in order to supress the urge to reach up to him for comfort.

Peeta's in the process of making his way over to me when we hear it: someone making their way across the lawn to us. Without a moment's hesitation, all three of us have grasped our knives and spun to face our intruder. Why we do this, I don't know – Haymitch later comes up with the best explanation, arguing that anyone who dares interrupt three pent up, paranoid victors when they have knives in their hands are in for a shock, and Jesus, he really could do with a drink.

Gale raises an eyebrow, lifting his hands. "I come in peace."

I instantly drop my knife, but my companions are not so fast to surrender their weapons: out of the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch and Peeta exchange a look that is resigned on Peeta's part and disbelieving on Haymitch's. A look that almost says _are you going to let this happen? _Before I have time to wonder at this exchange, Peeta drops his knife. I smile up at him. Haymitch, however, holds onto his, ignoring my pointed look.

"Can we help you?" Haymitch drawls, playing with his knife in a way that can only be described as sinister. Gale ignores him and addresses me directly.

"I heard some of the new Peacekeepers talking. They're going to start charging the fence again tonight." His voice is urgent and as his eyes penetrate mine deeply his meaning is crystal clear: this could be our last chance. I see in his face the same desperate nostalgia that courses through me at the thought that I might be losing my haven, _our _haven, forever. Then I remember that I am going to be dead within a fortnight. Unexpectedly, the need to be out there, to be free one last time, intensifies by a thousandfold. I force myself to look round to Peeta. The old Katniss might have taken off without a moment's thought, but thinking of the unexplained exchange between him and Haymitch a few moments before stops me from doing this. He looks down at me and sighs, nods his head. Ignoring Haymitch's disbelieving snort, I stand up and embrace my husband for the first time in days.

"Thank you," I breathe into his ear. His arms wind around me tightly and he says nothing, kissing my cheek instead. When I pull away, I reach for his hand. "You could come with us…?"

I know from the half smile that this coaxes from him that he knows as well as I do that this is an empty offer. He's too loud, of course, and he's never been inside the woods. "Thanks, but I'll stay. Thought Haymitch and I would try out some weightlifting again." Haymitch groans behind him.

I smile, lean forwards to kiss Peeta on the cheek and am shocked when he turns suddenly, making our lips touch. I mean to pull away, but something happens when the kiss changes. Somehow, out of nowhere, a small pool of fire begins to form in the pit of my belly. The kiss deepens: I gasp when Peeta's tongue sweeps across my top lip and bite down onto his bottom one gently, rewarded by a hitch in his breath. I smile into his mouth and we pull away. The grin that greets me is so filled with love and desire that I realise I want to stay here, to make him smile like that again. I remember now, with a jolt, that we have not kissed like that in weeks. I cannot help myself when I lean forwards, desperate for the feel of his lips on mine again.

"Ahem."

Despite my heightened awareness from years in the woods, I jump. Haymitch is leaning against the side of his house, eyebrows raised. Gale is staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. I realise that I had forgotten they were there, caught up in mine and Peeta's bubble of re-discovered desire. Guiltily, I make to move away from him, but Peeta's arm snakes around my waist in a not completely unwelcome fashion and I melt into his touch.

"Don't be too long," he murmurs as he pushes a strand of hair away from my forehead. I smile up at him, kiss him again.

I turn away and gesture to Gale, who has been edging away from the scene slowly. "I just have to get my things." Gale nods. I see his face drop as he watches me duck into Peeta's house rather than the house that I shared with Prim and my mother. My stomach churns uneasily. _Will I not stop disappointing people today?_

Within a few minutes, Gale and I are striding towards the Meadow, where he reliably informs me the last hole in the fence remains untouched by Thread. This seems a little wrong in my mind and I cannot help but wonder why our new, vigilant Head would leave such a glaring gap in his security, but I am too anxious to get into the woods to worry about this now, so I push it to the back of my mind. When we reach the hole, I turn to Gale and gesture for him to go first. He shakes his head.

"I can't. My back…" I can hear the sadness in his voice and pity flows through me – Gale has never let anything stop him from joining me in the woods, and I know that it kills him to be crippled in this way. Without hesitating, I reach out to hug him. I pull back when he laughs against my shoulder.

"What?"

"I knew you'd do that," he says. I raise my eyebrows, demand a further explanation. "Because I'm in pain. That's the only thing I've got going for me, now, isn't it?"

I hate this. It's the implication that I'm some sort of twisted Mother Theresa who only shows affection when she thinks she is expected to, when someone she cares about needs her. In a way, this is true – don't I thrive on being needed? Don't I get a kick out of watching Prim enjoy our new home, knowing that its procuration was partly down to me? Don't I love to see the children on Parcel Day, clutching the extra food they never would have been able to afford? – but to hear Gale voice it is too much for comfort. Within seconds I have pushed him away, wriggled under the fence and am sprinting out of view.

Completely unintentionally, I realise that I am heading towards the lake. I don't bother to retrieve my bow, knowing that in my state the chances of me hitting anything are exactly nil.

I come to regret my decision, though, when I hear the unmistakable _click_ of a weapon right behind my head.

"Turn around," the voice says. "Slowly."

_Peacekeepers_. Damn. They won't punish me, I'm sure – Snow is already doing that for them – but for them to find me, here, now, is something I would rather have avoided. "Look, I don't want any trouble," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll just go back through the fence and we can forget all about it." I don't know where these words are coming from – Peeta, maybe, and his conciliatory ways rubbing off on me – but I don't have long to wonder.

"It's _her_," another voice says. "It's her, Twill!"

The sound of a weapon hitting the ground. I turn, slowly, bracing myself for a fight regardless.

Two women in Peacekeeper's uniforms that don't fit are staring. One of them is holding something. Something familiar.

"What is that?" I bark.

"You don't know?" The one holding it asks in surprise. I bristle at this, say nothing. "Katniss, it…"

The other woman – older, I think – takes it from her and passes it to me. I frown at it.

It's a cracker. I can't fathom this, for a moment, and merely stare at it – but then I turn it over. Imprinted into it is…

"It means we're on your side," the older woman says softly.

It's my mockingjay.

-HG-

Some part of me is surely surprised when I find myself standing on his porch, my hand hovering in mid-air as if to knock upon the battered wooden door, but I know somehow that I had never intended to go anywhere else. I knock, wincing as I shift from one foot to another and land on my injured ankle. I make a mental note to go to see my mother first thing in the morning.

Haymitch doesn't answer, so I push the door open and make my way inside. Predictably, the place is a mess: empty food wrappers and various bottles litter the floor, and I find myself coming to the conclusion that liquor may not have been the only reason for Haymitch's inherent untidiness. Unpredictably, he isn't in: I settle myself in for a wait, taking a seat on the torn loveseat and hissing when my tailbone protests painfully.

I am there for – what, an hour? It feels like an age. I am on the verge of running out of patience when I hear him drag his weary feet up the porch steps and into the hall. He is tired, that much is evident, so I know that he will not have noticed my presence. I frown. I hate startling Haymitch, particularly when he has a knife nearby – and in his house, there is always a knife nearby. I clear my throat quietly, hoping for the best.

He responds almost immediately, charging into the living room, eyes wide and knife slashing wildly. It takes a moment for him to spot me: another moment passes before he decides that I am no threat and puts the knife down. He takes the seat opposite me wordlessly.

"This had better be good, sweetheart. I'm tired."

I had forgotten the modification to his sleep patterns – now that Haymitch has to be up early to train with Peeta and I all day, he has taken to sleeping more and more in the night. I can see by the shadows under his eyes that he is having trouble adjusting to such a change. Perhaps the nightmares are worse at night.

I push pitying thoughts of Haymitch and his terrorised subconscious aside and fall into my story. I tell him about the encounter with Bonnie and Twill, and the uprising in 8; about their insistence that 13 exists, and their proof; lastly, about Thread's new persecution of my freedom, and how I am sure that someone has informed on me. Haymitch, to his credit, does not interrupt. Even after I have finished with my story, he remains silent, his grey eyes glinting in the moonlight that filters in through the blind-less windows. I try to allow him some time to react, but I am buzzing: buzzing with the possibility of a 13th district and all that that could mean. "Well?" I burst out finally.

Haymitch shifts uncomfortably. "I wouldn't get your hopes up, sweetheart."

My heart drops. Of course, I'd known that it had been too good to be true. But some part of me clings to the idea of freedom, somewhere outside of Panem, waiting in the unexplored wilderness. This part of me is unexpectedly harsh. "Oh, what would you know," I snap, pushing myself off the sofa to pace the length of the living room, ignoring the pain in my heel.

"I don't. But neither do you." Haymitch lets out a shaky laugh that surprises me. "This is what people do when they don't know what else to do, sweetheart. You're clinging to desperate rumours, just like those girl from 8."

This pulls me up short. I stop pacing, consider this. "But what about the footage of the mockingjay?" I frown.

"Oh, please. The Capitol's rich, but do you really think they can afford to fly out a reporter to 13 every time they want to make a news bulletin?"

And with those words, it's gone. The last hope that I had, destroyed by Haymitch's downhearted logic. I sink back onto the sofa. Despair spreads through me like poison, chilling my heated veins, steadying my racing heart. "What do you think they will do to them?" I whisper. "The rebels?"

I glance at Haymitch, and he looks as forlorn as I feel. "I don't know, Katniss," he mutters back. I can barely register shock as he calls me by my name. "Look at 13. They had no problem wiping that district off the map. And you've seen what they've done here, even without any real provocation. I don't think Snow would have nightmares over the death of another district."

This is too much for me. At once, I am on my feet, ready to flee – as I always do – at the prospect of death. _All my fault_. My hand is on the doorknob, when Haymitch's snide voice halts me in my tracks.

"You can't keep doing that, you know."

I whirl around to face him. Desperation has made me wild. "Doing _what_?" I snarl. I just want to be out of here, in my own bed, with Peeta…

"You can't keep living like this, sweetheart." He pushes himself out of the armchair in which he sits and stops in front of me. "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know." I've heard this before. I'm on my way to turn, to stalk away from him, but his hand catches my arm. "But you could at least act like you're trying."

This shocks me to the extent that I do not try to pull my arm out of his steel grip. I meet his eyes, confused, and am yet more bemused to see a little sadness in them. Haymitch takes advantage of my shocked silence and presses on.

"You might not be able to see it, but I sure as hell can. Every time you flounce off with your coal miner friend, you…" He lets go of my arm, drops it as though he no longer wants to touch me. "You have no idea what you're doing to him, do you?" He spits at me, disgusted.

I suddenly think of the exchange between Peeta and our mentor earlier today. The way Haymitch had looked vaguely appalled at the thought that I was just going to take off, to leave them and spend the day with Gale, instead. The way Peeta had looked, a little sad, as if to say _what else can I do?_

As I have been contemplating this, Haymitch has strolled away and is busying himself trying to make a fire. I watch him struggle with matches and wet wood for a moment. Listen to him curse. I slowly make my way over and prise the matchbox from his hands. Within moments, a flame takes hold of the damp kindling. I blow on it.

"He never says anything, does he?" I shake my head at this. "Didn't think so. But don't you make the mistake of thinking that just because his mother beat the backbone out of him, I'm going to let him make the same mistake with you." I abandon the fire and turn to glare at him. His face is softer than I could have anticipated, though, and I can't quite get out my scathing retort. "Listen, sweetheart. He'd never tell you this, but he loves you more than life itself. Hell, the kid's willing to die for you. Which, by the way, I will never understand." He lets out a sad chuckle, shakes his head. "I know you feel the same way. Maybe you feel that way about Gale, too." I open my mouth to protest this, but he cuts me off. "I thought not. Can you see, though, that he might not be as observant as me? Jesus, Katniss, if you saw him vanish off into the woods at some girl's beck and call, what would _you _think?"

I picture this. I see Peeta being lead into the woods by some mystery girl. See him letting her hold his hand, laugh at her jokes. See him let her kiss him.

And I hate her. I want her dead more than I've ever wanted anything.

I blink out of my fury-filled reverie and find Haymitch watching me. With the image of Peeta and the stranger kissing still fresh in my mind, I ask him, "is that really what he thinks?" I mean for it to come out a little stronger, but all that comes out is a whisper. I sound, for a moment, like what I really am: an eighteen year old girl, in love for the first time and terrified about it. Haymitch must hear this, too, because he reaches out and strokes my upper arm. He doesn't need to say anything.

A few minutes later I am in the house that I share with Peeta. I tug my boots off, gritting my teeth as I jostle my injured ankle. I hobble up the stairs, clinging to the banister, and turn into our bedroom. Peeta is not there: panic flares through me in a way that I can't quite explain. "Peeta?" I call frantically. "_Peeta_?"

"In here."

Urgently, I push my way into the second bedroom and sigh in relief. The room that Peeta has turned into his studio is filled with paintings, easels and – thankfully – the man himself. I limp a pathway through the paintings and wrap my arms around him where he sits with his back to me. "Hey," I say, breathless in my relief.

"Hey," he smiles back, tilting his face up to mine. I am in the process of leaning down to kiss him when two things happen simultaneously: one, my tailbone grazes a painting behind me and I let out a yelp of pain that causes Peeta to leap to his feet instantly; two, I notice what it is he was working on, and tears spring to my eyes.

"What is it?" he's asking. His hands and eyes fly over my body frantically, trying to discover the source of the pain. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say impatiently. I move forwards to examine the painting. "Oh, Peeta."

"Katniss, did he hurt you? Tell me."

I spin around to face him, hissing once again as I move too quickly for my ankle's liking. "What? Peeta, no!"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. I am the one who reaches for him, pulling him into my arms. As we melt into the embrace, I find myself relax. Of course, relaxing is not always a good thing, as I discover when the tears begin to flow. He pulls away, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

I mean to speak calmly, but I am sobbing too hard to get a word out. I can see panic in Peeta's eyes: I have never cried like this in front of him before. I gesture to the painting by way of explanation.

"You weren't meant to see that," he says quietly. He goes to pick it up, to tuck it behind some other work of art, but I stop him.

"Is that…" I choke, impatiently wipe away the tears. "Is that… really… what you think?"

Peeta is silent. We both stand back to examine the picture. Of photograph quality, it encapsulates Gale and I in the woods: our hands are clasped in what some might see as a display of friendship, but from the way that Peeta has drawn our eyes – filled with love and adoration – it is obvious that he sees it as something more.

"I didn't mean to paint it," he mutters. He runs a hand through his hair, smearing paint onto his scalp. "It just… happened."

Watching him carefully, I think back to the image that I'd visualised back at Haymitch's: I see the mystery girl claiming Peeta in the same way that Gale claims me in the painting, and it breaks my heart. I want to talk about this. I really, really do. I _need _to – need to convince him that it's never been like that with Gale. Not like it is with Peeta. But I don't know where to start.

"Peeta, I…"

I know that there is no way that I can make up for this. The heartache this must have caused him – I can never change that. Never clear my conscience. I break into fresh sobs – why is this happening so often now? I think for a minute and decide to blame the hormones – and he pulls me into his arms without a word.

"Come on," he says finally. "We need to get out of here. I can't… look at it any more."

I nod and let him lead me to bed.

Long after Peeta has fallen asleep, I stroke his face, kiss his cheek, and wonder if I will ever deserve the boy with the bread.

Haymitch is right, I think, and the hand that is not exploring the contours of my husband's face drifts to my stomach, where it finds the sickeningly evident bump that is growing by the day. I have to tell him soon.

And then… and _then_…

No, I think. I couldn't. I stare down at Peeta, my brows meeting in concentration. He would _hate _it.

But what if…

For the second time that night, I find myself at Haymitch's house. He's asleep, but he's so alert and so sober these days that I manage to wake him with a shake. Ignoring his protests, I launch into my plan.

It's dawn when we stop talking. Peeta, I know, will be just getting up, and will panic to find an empty bed. I am leaving, my hand on the door knob, when Haymitch catches my other arm.

"You do know, sweetheart," he says. I have a feeling that he's aiming for his usual unconcerned drawl, but it falls way short when his voice breaks. "What this is going to do to him?" He looks pointedly at my stomach. "You're going to break his heart."

My throat tightens and my stomach churns uneasily. "I know," I whisper.

Haymitch watches me for a long moment before nodding, releasing my arm. He's never done anything like this before, which is why I gasp when he takes me into his arms. "It's the right thing to do," he murmurs into my hair.

When he lets me go, we both feign ignorance of the tears welling up in the other's eyes.

No more time for tears.

Tomorrow is the reaping.

**AN: Jeez, sorry this took so long. I hope you guys enjoy, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can – probably within the next week. Ta!**


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